


No League Of Ours

by Hekate1308



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, post-reunion, season 3 disregarded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 47,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone made an offer to several of the best hit men in the World: Kill Sherlock Holmes. Whoever made the kill would get the money. Keeping Sherlock safe was going to be difficult enough, John knew. Then someone the consulting detective had met during the three years he never talked about showed up and everything got even more complicated. Post-Reunion, season 3 disregarded. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I am once more experimenting with my style and how to tell a story.

Starting a new life wasn’t easy, especially when one hadn’t had one before.

And since Tobias Marshall not only had long forgotten what a “normal” life was supposed to be, but had also had no inclination to leave his old one behind, until two and a half weeks spent as the captive of a strange man, he wasn’t exactly prepared for the task.

But he had decided to do it, anyway. He had been a good hit man, one of the best, but he chose to leave the money and the anonymity behind because his captor had brought him Christmas Dinner.

He was pathetic.

But he couldn’t go back. Not because he had given him all the information he needed to ensure the arrest of the Tornton family; but because –

Because he had looked in the eyes of a man who was supposed to be his enemy and had seen a better man than he’d ever been.

He couldn’t explain it. That was just how it was.

And now he was here, trying to build a new life, find a job, live like a man.

Sometimes, he wondered what his kidnapper was doing. It was ridiculous; he certainly hadn’t spent enough time with the man to develop Stockholm’s syndrome. Yet he found himself thinking about him, who he was, why he had captured him –

And, most importantly, why he hadn’t killed him.

He could have. Tobias had given him the information he wanted. There was nothing holding him back.

He didn’t kill him. He left the door open. He let Tobias get away.

And he didn’t know why, and he didn’t know why he cared. Just that he had got away should be enough.

It wasn’t. And now, on top of trying to figure out how to talk to other people without asking them who they wanted killed, he was obsessed with a stranger.

He’d told him to call him John, but that certainly wasn’t his real name.

Tobias had absolutely nothing to go on. He should stop thinking about it.

He couldn’t.

The mystery was too fascinating.

He didn’t even know where to start looking, though.

And then he got lucky.

He came home from the bar he worked at – how strange it was, to call anything his _home_ , after he had spent years travelling around, but this flat was his, even if it was small – and turned on the television to see the news that the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes had returned from the dead.

He remembered that he had heard something about this story years ago, and that now and then he would catch the name during channel surfing or when he was going over the headlines of the day; but he had never seen Sherlock Holmes before, or if he had, it had been such a fleeting glance that his face hadn’t registered.

Now, though, he saw him step out of a house – 221B Baker Street in London, according to the reporter, where he lived with his “flatmate”, whatever that meant – and just _knew_.

He had a different hair and eye colour, of course.

But –

The movements; the form of his face; and this _stare_ , this stare he had given Tobias so often during these few weeks.

 Sherlock Holmes was John.

Sherlock Holmes was the stranger who had made him human, or something like it, again.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, staring dumbly at the tv long after the news report had ended, but once the shock had worn off, he immediately went to his laptop.

He had to know more about this consulting detective.

A few hours later, he closed the laptop, his mind spinning.

He had been right. The man was far from ordinary.

He had invented his own job, convinced the police to let him work with them, picked up an ex-army doctor on the way, met a crazy man who wanted to cause chaos, defeated him, but at the cost of three years of his life, and now he was back solving cases like nothing had happened.

Tobias had met him during the years he had spent in hiding. It explained his disguise.

It might also explain why he’d needed the information. Tobias, while he had always kept out of the businesses of his various... employers wasn’t an idiot, and he had heard the name Moriarty whispered at dark corners more than once. If a British guy was known among American criminals...

The consulting detective must have tried to destroy this organization, or whatever it was that Moriarty had built.

Tobias didn’t doubt that he had succeeded.

That was it, then; the mystery solved. A consulting detective had turned a hit man into a bartender, a bartender who was rather content with his life, and he didn’t have to think about it further.

Only he did think about Sherlock Holmes from time to time. He couldn’t help it. He figured it was normal; after all, Tobias hadn’t really had a conversation, a real conversation, with another human being for close to a decade before he came along, and it had changed him.

It would be strange if he didn’t think about Sherlock Holmes, he told himself.

And then came the day where one of his old sources contacted him.

The only reason Tobias kept in contact with some of them was that he wanted to know if anyone had put a hit out on him, which was likely considering he had disappeared and an old patron might think that he had switched sides. And since he used burn phones, they wouldn’t be able to locate him.

All he’d ever got out of his sources were offers for other jobs. He’d always declined. He’d never done anything else, though. If the employer found another hit man – it wasn’t his problem.

Until it was.

Because this offer was shorter than most, and urgent enough that it hadn’t only been sent to him, but was an open one – meaning that whoever made the kill would get the money.

_Sherlock Holmes. 3 mio.$._

Tobias read the text and knew he had to act. 


	2. A Warning

John really wished he could have been more annoyed about the kidney on the shelf that was supposed to be body part free. But ever since Sherlock had returned, and he'd found he forgave him without looking back, without blaming him for what had happened (apart from the shouting and the bleeding nose), he realized he'd never take something like organs in his – their fridge for granted again.

He was thankful they were there.

So he sighed, put the kidney in the right shelf and started to prepare breakfast. Sherlock was still too thin for his liking; he had obviously eaten too little in the last three years. It was time that he put on some weight.

He'd be up any minute now, John guessed. They had fallen back into their routine quickly.

Although there were still some questions Sherlock refused to answer.

He hadn't told John what he'd done in the years he'd been away. Apart from "taking down Moriarty's web". He hadn't told him where he'd been, who he'd met, what he'd had to do in order to reach his goal, and sometimes it scared the doctor. Not because he thought Sherlock a psychopath, but because Sherlock had suffered – he could see it in his eyes, when the consulting detective thought he wasn't looking, hear it in the sorrowful melodies he'd been composing – and he didn't tell him. He never answered his questions, preferred to ignore that he'd simply shown up after years everyone who knew him had been convinced he was dead.

John sighed and continued making breakfast. He wouldn't get Sherlock to talk to him if he didn't want to. He had to wait and hope for the best.

Soon enough, he heard Sherlock moving in his room, and a few minutes later, the consulting detective entered the kitchen.

He stared at the breakfast and John frowned.

"You are not on a case, you will eat".

Sherlock looked like he wanted to protest, but then he simply sighed and sat down.

"Is there anything in sight?" John asked as he put the plate in front of him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "As far as I can tell by the emails, two cheating spouses and an employee who has been embezzling from the company. I already contacted the clients."

John used pouring the tea as an excuse to hide his smile. Before Moriarty and the years he'd spent in hiding, Sherlock wouldn't have written back, he wouldn't even have considered it. But since he had returned, he had become somewhat more – open. John had never believed him to be a high-functioning sociopath, but it was nice to see that other people were starting to notice it too. Greg, for example – who still looked slightly confused when Sherlock called him by his first name and came by at least three times a week, even if there was no case in sight. Or Anderson and Donovan, who regretted what they had done and nodded politely when Sherlock greeted them at crime scenes. John hadn't forgiven them, although the consulting detective had with a simple "His lies were convincing", but they appreciated Sherlock's work and he was thankful for it.

As he turned around to give Sherlock his cup, he noticed that the consulting detective was once more looking out the window, his eyes clouded.

John knew that look from soldiers he had served with. He knew it from his mirror.

It was the look of someone who remembered something he didn't want to.

He gently put the cup down in front of his friend and didn't comment on it. He had learned early on, right on the first evening, when Sherlock had moved back into 221B without asking and started to experiment in the kitchen, that he wouldn't answer any questions about what he had been doing.

Sometimes John wondered if Sherlock thought that what he had done would make the doctor angry. As if he ever could be after learning that he had given up three years of his life to keep the people who mattered most to him safe.

Sherlock picked up his cup and took a sip, not elaborating what he had been thinking about.

John watched him clean his plate, shooting him stern looks every time Sherlock tried to say he had had enough, and of course the consulting detective left him to clean up while he went into the living room and started playing his violin, a cheerful tone he hadn't heard before. His friend had probably composed it during breakfast, judging by the way he had drummed his fingers against the table.

For not having had a case – a real, demanding one – in three days, Sherlock was not as bored as he would have been when they had first met, and John knew he still had a few organs in the fridge to experiment on, so he looked forward to a good day, whether they got a case or not.

Half an hour later, Mrs. Hudson walked up the stairs, pretending that she didn't want to check that Sherlock had been eating. Sherlock shot her a deducing glance that John decided meant that she had a date with her newest beau – a man in his sixties who had moved in a flat a few doors down about a month ago, and whom Sherlock had deduced to be "boring, but not in a relationship".

The consulting detective didn't say anything, though, simply wished her a "Good Day" and John smiled at him once she'd left.

Sherlock waved his hand.

"There is no reason for Mrs. Hudson not to go out with him. I do fear, however, that eventually she will come to find him rather annoyingly normal".

John laughed.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"You shouldn't underestimate her" Sherlock replied cryptically, and the doctor wondered what Mrs. Hudson had been doing when she had met him. He didn't ask, however; if their landlady wanted him to know, she would tell him.

Sherlock proceeded to experiment in the kitchen and John fetched the novel he'd been reading from his bedroom.

He only realized how much time had passed when his stomach started grumbling and he looked at his watch.

It was almost two pm and he stood up to find Sherlock still engrossed with his microscope.

"Sherlock..."

The consulting detective pretended he couldn't hear him.

"Sherlock, you need to eat".

"I already did" he answered, sounding like a five-year-old, and John smiled against his will.

"You're still too thin. Come on, just a sandwich".

Sherlock looked up and scrutinized his friend. John realized that what he had said – albeit in the playful, annoyed tone he had used before Sherlock's death – must have reminded his friend of something. He swallowed.

Eventually, Sherlock nodded.

"Just one. I have to finish this".

John frowned, but a smirk proved that Sherlock wasn't angry or distraught, and he made two sandwiches for the two of them.

He put the plate down next to Sherlock's elbow and gave him a glare that he knew was half-hearted at best.

"Don't make me check if you eat it".

"I am capable of feeding myself".

Sherlock's voice was teasing, and John shook his head.

"Stubborn sod" he murmured and returned to his book. The next hours were spent in companionable silence.

Greg came by at six, and Sherlock pretended to be annoyed as he stated, "There is obviously nothing going on, if you can get off work at this hour" but neither the DI nor John believed him.

Greg shook his head. "It is hardly my fault that the criminals aren't interesting enough for you".

John remembered a conversation that had taken place a long time ago and could almost hear the "God job I am not one of them"; but now, his best friend simply shrugged and mumbled something incoherent.

The DI staid for an hour, discussing sports with John and telling Sherlock about a few cases that had come up and that he'd managed to solve on his own. There was one – a family of robbers – that John thought more difficult than Greg let on, and judging by Sherlock's nod, he was impressed as well. It was enough for their friend to leave with a proud smile on his face, and John grinned because there was someone else in the World who understood Sherlock Holmes, and if that wasn't worth being happy over, he didn't know what was.

After he had looked at his watch and decided that he might as well wait a little before forcing Sherlock to eat again, after all, he had already managed to do it twice today, he settled back on his chair with his book while Sherlock laid down on the sofa, closing his eyes. He was probably storing something in his mind palace.

He should have known. Not only this day, but the months that had come before it, had been wonderfully peaceful – not in a way that made John's shaking hand or limp reappear, but in that no psychopath of the sort of Moriarty had tried to kill Sherlock.

And then Sherlock's phone rang, and their day became much more complicated.

John should have expected it. For some reason, he hadn't.

When Sherlock got the phone call, he didn't think much about it, other than wondering if this meant they had a new case. It didn't have to be. Since his return, he'd been called more and more often, not only by clients or police officers, but by people like Henry Knight or Mike Stamford, and he hadn't complained about it.

Then again, seeing as he had used up most of the organs in the fridge, a new case wouldn't be that bad.

When he fetched the phone for Sherlock, he saw that it was an unknown number, so it was likely that it was indeed about a case.

John had to admit he looked forward to it as well.

He did until he saw Sherlock frown.

Not exactly frown – no, the consulting detective had always been good at hiding his emotions. But ever since he had returned, he had been more open, and therefore this attempt to appear completely unaffected by the phone call made John uneasy. Especially because he had always been able to read Sherlock. Maybe not as well as he could now, and maybe not from the beginning – but Sherlock was worried.

John pretended to be reading his book, although he was aware that he wasn't fooling Sherlock. He strained his ears, but he couldn't even make out if the voice on the other end was male or female, and the consulting detective didn't let on if he knew the person he was calling or not. He hadn't mentioned a name, but he hadn't asked who it was either...

The conversation gave him very little to go on.

"Hello?

Yes.

I understand.

Are there any leads?

Thank you".

Sherlock hung up and for a few moments, silence reigned in the flat. He stared out of the window.

John couldn't stay quiet.

"Client?" he asked.

Sherlock continued to stare out of the window; John couldn't say if he was lost in thought or refused to meet the doctor's eyes.

Eventually, he answered, "Not exactly".

"Don't do that."

Sherlock looked at him.

"Do what?"

"Be cryptic. Something is bothering you, I can tell".

John couldn't keep a slight tremor out of his voice. He knew Sherlock could tell what, or who, he was thinking of. He hadn't seen Sherlock Holmes look concerned in a long time. The last time had been when –

"It's not what you think" Sherlock interrupted his thoughts calmly.

John waited, but he didn't continue. The doctor sighed, annoyed.

"What is it then, Sherlock?"

"A – source contacted me".

John noticed the slight pause before the word "source" but didn't comment on it. If he had, the next sentence to come out of Sherlock's mouth would have chased away any thoughts about the vocabulary he was using.

"It seems that someone whose identity is of yet unknown put out a hit on me".


	3. Bodyguard

"What does that mean, someone put a hit on you?" John demanded once he was able to form a coherent sentence.

He sounded angrier than he felt. In fact, he wasn't angry at all; he was concerned. And not because someone had put a hit on Sherlock – although that certainly was reason enough – but because his friend looked worried. John was ready to bet that the consulting detective had got more than a few death threats in the course of his life. He should be used to it. He was used to it. Normally, he reacted calmly to such news.

Maybe him being more open about his emotions had something to do with it, but still – John couldn't shake the feeling that something bad had happened or was about to happen.

Sherlock answered the question without rolling his eyes or commenting on John's being slow, and the doctor was grateful.

"It's an open offer – whoever kills me receives three million dollars."

"Shouldn't Mycroft know about this?"

The consulting detective shrugged.

"The offer has been sent to several hit men and other intermediaries, who forwarded it between themselves. Even Mycroft cannot keep surveillance on every communication on the planet".

That was true. John, however, sometimes forgot that not even Mycroft Holmes was almighty.

"Are you going to – "

Sherlock was already texting his brother and said, "I'm going to inform Greg as well".

That he was texting the DI, even though there was little he could do said a lot about how much Sherlock's opinion regarding having friends had changed. The doctor couldn't help but feel glad, no matter that an assassin was after his best friend.

No. Not just one. Several.

They would have to find the one who had ordered the hit and be on their guard at all times. And if only one hot man happened to attack them at a moment when they weren't paying attention or when John wasn't there to protect Sherlock...

John clenched his hands into fists. He wasn't going to allow this. He couldn't live without Sherlock. Not again. He'd had three years of experience what that was like. He had no desire to experience it again. He would do what was necessary, whatever was necessary, to ensure he wouldn't have to.

He realized how desperate and selfish he sounded, even to himself, and forced himself to relax.

Sherlock was the World's only consulting detective, the brother of the British Government, and he could take care of himself. Most of the time. But if he rushed into –

"I assure you that I have no intention of dying again".

John looked into Sherlock's eyes and nodded. It wouldn't have been much of a reassurance for most people, but they didn't know his best friend.

He wondered again which source had contacted Sherlock. If the offer was being circulated amongst hit men, it was unlikely that it had been a member of his Homeless Network. John wouldn't push, though. There were other things to worry about, and he suspected that Sherlock would eventually tell him.

Mycroft let Sherlock know that he was "working on it" within minutes; a moment after the consulting detective had read the text aloud to his blogger, his phone chimed again and Sherlock sighed.

"Greg is coming".

"Of course he is" John replied. "You didn't expect him to answer "Okay" and not do anything did you?" He was teasing his friend; they had both known that Greg would come over immediately.

The DI looked as grave as could be expected as he opened the door with the key Sherlock had given him without asking John's permission. The doctor would have said nothing against it anyway.

"Sherlock, John". The consulting detective nodded; John gave him a rather weak smile which he answered with one of his own.

"Your text was somewhat cryptic – so someone put a hit on you, but what does it mean that you "expect several attempts" from "many quarters"?"

Sherlock explained about the open offer and Greg sank down on the sofa.

"How many hit men have heard about it?"

"According to my source several all over the World. Mostly the best of the best".

Greg rubbed his face with his right hand.

"Alright. So you are telling me that the best hit men in the World are on their way to London to kill you".

"They might already be here".

"Wonderful". The DI sighed before looking at the doctor.

"I know you are about to offer me a cup of tea, but I would prefer something stronger".

John couldn't blame him; he wanted a drink himself. Sherlock took a glass of brandy as well, proving that he was more worried than he let on.

Not about himself, pf course. He didn't fear his own death, John knew well enough. He was concerned about the safety of his friends.

John swore to himself that he wouldn't let him out of his sight. He remembered what had happened the last time Sherlock was in grave danger and he had allowed himself to be sent away.

Greg seemed to as well, because he announced, "I am staying here".

Sherlock looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

"Here. On the sofa. Until this is over. Don't try to dissuade me because it's not going to work."

"You will find it rather difficult as the only one of us three with a regular job".

John had quit his locum work shortly after Sherlock had returned and hadn't regretted it since. He doubted he ever would. He was helping people, he was working with his best friend, and even if some of their clients didn't have the money to pay them, Mycroft made sure they had more than enough.

There had been a time when John would have declined this form of assistance, but now he couldn't bring himself to care. He had helped saving the country quite a few times since he'd met Sherlock. He might as well accept money for it, if it allowed him to continued leading the life he wanted and needed.

Gerg whot Sherlock and exasperated look.

"Do you think I didn't take care of that? I called Mycroft. For the time being – as long as this will take – I am assisting the Ministry of Inner Affairs in a survey about Human Trafficking."

John laughed. Mycroft probably had already made sure Greg had an excuse not to come to work before the DI called.

Sherlock tried to scowl, but didn't quite succeed.

Greg grinned and downed his brandy.

During the next hours, they tried to make a list of people who might have put the price on Sherlock's head, but it proved a near impossible task.

Sherlock informed them that, although he had taken care of Moriarty's web, there were quite a few criminals who hadn't been a part of but profited by it and who might hold a grudge; and, with his much-publicised return, he didn't consider it difficult to figure out who was behind the unravelling of the consulting criminal's organization. Plus, he might have made enemies he didn't even know about because "he wasn't the most pleasant of men".

Greg snorted at that, and John didn't bother to hold back his laughter.

Eventually, they decided to call it a night. They had to wait and hope that either Mycroft or Sherlock's source would find out more.

Sherlock tried to protest, but John and Greg kept insisting that he needed rest, so he stood up and headed to his room.

"Sherlock – " John stopped. He didn't know how ton ask his friend to stay in the flat and not do anything rash.

Knowing Sherlock he would probably do it bjust because John had asked him not to.

In the next moment, he felt ashamed for the thought because Sherlock nodded and said "Goodnight John, Greg" before turning around and entering his room, closing the door behind him.

Greg must have sensed John's discomfort. He gave him a reassuring smile and stated, "He knows you're just worried about. I'm too".

John nodded and fetched a pillow and a blanket for the DI, who made himself comfortable on the sofa.

John slowly walked up the stairs to his room.

Despite three people being in the flat, it felt empty. John jumped when the stairs creaked under his step and scolded himself. He couldn't worry about every shadow.

It wouldn't help Sherlock.

He resigned himself to the fact there was nothing he could do and tried to sleep.

Sherlock would have liked to play his violin, but even though he wasn't tired, John and Greg should rest. They would need all the strength they had if things stood as bad as Sherlock suspected.

Whoever wanted him dead had not only known who to contact, but also how to do so almost undetected. If not for Tobias Marshall, they wouldn't have known about it.

An interesting individual, Sherlock had to admit. He always kept an eye out for challenging cases all over the World – it was how he'd learned of the hit man's existence years ago to begin with – and had noticed that he had disappeared after their – interaction.

There had been no need to change his MO – he had never left any evidence behind, he had killed swiftly, efficiently and without making his victims suffer, although Sherlock doubted he and his respective employer had cared much about that.

Sherlock had assumed he was either on the run from the Tornton family or dead.

Sometimes he'd wondered why he let him go. He was a hot man, he killed without remorse; he lived off the record, without any human contact.

No one would have noticed if he had disappeared.

But Sherlock had let him go.

Because he'd given him the information he needed, even though he'd been unwilling to at first. Because they'd eaten together on Christmas. Because he'd been the first man Sherlock had talked to, really talked to, in months.

It didn't make sense, but in Sherlock's experience, actions out of sentiment rarely did. He couldn't imagine why Tobias Marshall had contacted him – or how he'd known it was Sherlock who had kidnapped him.

The phone call, sort as it was, had made clear that he did.

"Tobias Marshall. Remember me, John? Christmas?"

"There has been an offer made on your head. 3 million for whoever makes the kill. It's been forwarded to several top-notch hit men. I don't know who made the offer".

He had hung up without another word, the consulting detective's "thank you" going unheard. Sherlock had no doubt that it had been him. He remembered his voice. He was equally certain that the information was true.

Tobias Marshall had no reason to warn him about a non-existing danger.

He hadn't told anyone who his source was, not even Mycroft. His brother would probably not react at all as long as the story proved to be true, but John and Greg were hardly likely to approve, and while it didn't matter, Sherlock didn't want them to doubt the information and underestimate the danger they all found themselves in.

Once again, Sherlock Holmes had put his friends in danger.

A hit man wouldn't hesitate to kill anyone in his way when he could get millions of dollars with a single job.

Sherlock would never get them to leave his side, not after Moriarty; he would have to be more watchful than ever.

And, of course –

He called Mycroft.

"I know the reason for your call, brother mine. I assure you everything has been done to ensure the safety of John, Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper and Mike Stamford. I have to say, the list of your friends continues to grow."

Sherlock ignored the way his brother had pronounced the word "friends" – Mycroft had always insisted that he didn't need any, and the consulting detective was aware that he saw his decision to make some as a weakness – and simply replied "Thank you".

Mycroft was silent, and Sherlock hung up.

The knowledge that he had surprised his brother didn't bring him the satisfaction it normally would have.


	4. Help Of The Unexpected Kind

Greg woke up around seven and, unable to go back to sleep, went into the kitchen to make tea.

He would have liked to check up on the consulting detective, but didn't want to wake him on the off-chance that he had got some rest after all.

While the kettle was heating up, he sneaked to the living room window and looked outside.

All seemed peaceful; as far as he could tell, there were no loiterers on the sunlit street.

He'd worked long enough at Scotland Yard to know that this meant nothing, but he would take what comfort he could get.

Sherlock's life being in danger was nothing new – they had met when the younger man had still been taking drugs, and Greg couldn't say how many times he had had to watch over him on danger nights or keep him from running after criminals. More often than not, he hadn't been successful.

And then, he'd thought he'd failed Sherlock in every way possible, had believed him dead. He wouldn't make the mistake of not being at the consulting detective's side when there was a serious threat on his life again.

Because this – several hit men after Sherlock at once – was certainly more serious than the dangerous situations the consulting detective ran into on a daily basis.

He knew it was fruitless to hope that Sherlock would stay in the flat until everything had been dealt with. He could only stay in at his and John's side and try his utmost to protect him.

"The kettle is boiling".

Greg jumped and turned around. Sherlock was standing in the door of his room. The DI could tell he hadn't slept. He didn't mention it.

"Usually the person who notices first takes it off the stove" he replied.

Sherlock scoffed.

"You decided to make the tea".

Greg saw their conversation for the attempt of lightening his mood that it was and went to put the kettle off with a smile.

Sherlock looked on, apparently unconcerned, but the DI could see the tension in his shoulders.

"Any word from Mycroft?" he inquired, more because he couldn't bear the silence – Sherlock was never quiet, not really – than because he hoped for information. The consulting detective would have told him right away.

Sherlock shook his head and accepted the offered cup.

He took a sip. Without looking at the DI, he began "Greg – "

Sometimes, it still surprised him that Sherlock had decided not to delete his first name again, but he was glad that he had.

He knew what his friend was about to say and shook his head.

"I told you. I'm staying".

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but he continued, "Don't. If John and I weren't fond of danger, we wouldn't be friends with you to begin with".

Sherlock smirked and said nothing.

"I'll get some clothes from my flat" Greg announced after he'd emptied his cup. "Stay here until I return. Please".

Sherlock could have pointed out that this plea was unnecessary since John was at home, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. He nodded and watched his DI leave.

He couldn't deny that he was glad Greg was there. Sherlock could keep an eye on him and the DI would be a support for John.

He would keep his promise to stay in the flat until his return; he wasn't going to search for clues until John had got up anyway.

Sherlock knew from experience that his blogger was unlikely to be woken up by his violin once he was asleep, so he picked up the instrument and started to play.

As always the music helped him think and calmed his mind down. Despite his efforts not to theorize without data, he had he had spent the night going through hit men of whose existence he knew and deciding which ones were likely to already be in London. Just like their attempt to figure out who had put the hit on him, it had left him frustrated and unable to reach a conclusion.

He lost himself in the piece and wasn't aware that John had entered the living room until he put his violin down.

"Where's Greg?" the doctor asked.

"Getting some things from his place. I had to promise I won't leave the flat until he returns."

"Do you have to leave at all?"

John was aware he couldn't keep Sherlock in 221B, but he had to try.

"I need to go through some files at Scotland Yard."

"Greg could get them" John argued.

"I am not going to lock myself in because someone wants me killed".

John had expected such a reply. He sighed.

"Just – " he interrupted himself and suddenly laughed. "I would say "BE carefzl" but we both know you won't be."

"It is not a quality I am known for" Sherlock answered, chuckling.

Greg returned half an hour later. John was trying to convince Sherlock to have a piece of toast when opened the door in a new suit, a bag in his hand.

"That should last me for a few days".

He put the bag on the sofa as Sherlock went to put on his coat.

John and Greg shared a resigned look and moved to follow him.

"Our biggest concern at the moment" Sherlock announced as soon as they were sitting the cab that had, as usually, halted immediately after he had extended his arm "are the hit men who operate from the United Kingdom. I need to look at their files – or the files Scotland Yard has on murders they have committed. We should be prepared for their preferred methods of killing".

John and Greg nodded. The former turned to the DI and asked, "Aren't you supposed to be at the Ministry of Inner Affairs?"

Greg shrugged.

"I have to look at some files. No one's going to bother checking which ones".

"With Mycroft behind it, I'd like to see them try" Sherlock commented.

Their DI smiled.

They arrived at Scotland Yard and were on their way to Greg's office when they ran into Donovan. "Sir". She hesitated before adding, "Sherlock. Doctor Watson".

Both the Sergeant and Anderson avoided Sherlock since he had returned, and neither of them had uttered a single word against the consulting detective's help on cases.

John tried not to feel a certain satisfaction – Sherlock didn't blame them, never had, because "Moriarty had been convincing" – but failed.

It was good to see Donovan looking at Sherlock with respect.

The consulting detective swept past her towards the office. John gave her a court nod and quickly followed him, Greg behind the doctor.

Sherlock was already pulling up files when they entered.

"These are all unsolved cases – " Greg began, looking over his shoulder.

"Of course they are unsolved. If they weren't, we wouldn't have to worry about the killers" Sherlock stated.

He showed them several cases the police hadn't even connected, murmuring to himself.

Eventually, he leaned back.

"There are three men we have to worry about. Michel Dubois – a French citizen who has been living in England for ten years. He is a sniper, and quite as talented as Colonel Moran."

John remembered the shot that had killed Ronald Adair and frowned. "

"Christian Mellowes slits his targets' throats":

At least he would have to get close, John decided. As long as he kept a close watch, he would eb able to shoot him before he got a chance.

"Tomothy Carew. An artist with the garrotte."

The sniper was definitely the greatest threat; John was confident that the three together could take down the other two should the need arise.

Of course, the best way would be to catch their employer and make the offer go away.

"Nothing from Mycroft?" he asked. Sherlock shook his head while going through more files. This was not a good sign. Normally Mycroft would have found the man or woman responsible by now.

After another half hour spent browsing, Sherlock leaned back and huffed. He was annoyed; not only did he have too little data to decide which hit man was the most dangerous or most likely to make the first attempt on his life, but his brother was getting slow. Once they found the employer, the hit men had no reason to target him or his friends.

Before he'd met them, maybe even before Moriarty, he would have been delighted at the distraction the case provided; now he couldn't afford it. He couldn't lose them. Mycroft would scoff at the sentiment, but Sherlock knew that the British Government cared , at least to some degree, about him. He would do what was necessary to ensure his and his friends' safety.

He would have to be patient. Sadly, patience wasn't one of his virtues.

"I suggest we head back to the flat when you're done" John said.

Sherlock looked at his friend and noticed how straight he stood. This was Captain John Watson from the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, intent on his mission. Sherlock didn't think much of the precaution – a hit man might get into their flat or try and kill him on the street, no system was foolproof, not even Mycroft's – but chose to humour his blogger.

They made it back to the flat without incident. Mycroft's men were nowhere to be seen, but John didn't doubt they were there in the shadows, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

John realized he might as well have been thinking about the hit men and chased the thought away.

Mrs. Hudson came bustling out of her flat when she heard them come in.

"Boys – oh, hello, DI Lestrade".

"Greg" he corrected, and John saw with amusement the faint blush that appeared on their landlady's cheeks. Sherlock was right; she probably didn't like her new beau all that much.

"Greg" she beamed. "Why don't you go up, boys, and I'll bring tea."

"Should we tell her?" John asked once Mrs. Hudson's door had closed.

"Yes" Sherlock answered. "She might as well know who might be lurking around. I doubt they would be so obvious to let themselves be seen, but one can never know."

"Are you sure?" Greg inquired.

"She's stronger than she looks" John replied.

Mrs. Hudson came into the flat with tea and biscuits fifteen minutes later, happily chattering away.

Sherlock allowed himself to relax for a while; at this moment, everyone was safe. The hit mean might not even be in London yet, or they might wait for someone else to make the first move.

Finally he decided that it was time to interrupt Mrs. Hudson's story about Mrs. Turner.

"Mrs. Hudson, there is something we have to tell you."

"Is it about that bag on the sofa? Don't worry, Greg, you can stay as long as you need – "

"That's not the problem" Sherlock interrupted.

He gave her a brief account of what was going on. Mrs. Hudson reacted as he had expected.

"Oh, dear. You have to be careful, boys".

"Mrs. Hudson – " John began "You – "

She waved a dismissive hand in the air.

"Don't worry about me."

Greg stared at her, obviously caught between protesting and waiting for the landlady to elaborate, which she never did. She simply stood up, wished them a good day and took the ttray with the now empty kettle and cups away.

The DI looked at Sherlock and John.

"I told you" was all the doctor said.

They spent the afternoon waiting for news. Sherlock wasn't taking it well, and John was thankful that he no longer had a secret stash in the flat. Greg tried to get him to talk about some old cases, but it only made the consulting detective more impatient.

Sherlock had never taken well to being locked in, not even when it was for his own good – both John and Greg remembered danger nights they'd rather not – and he was trying to keep himself busy with experiments, but there was only so much he could do to human organs.

John was already fearing the moment he ran out, and Greg was contemplating calling Molly to get more, when something happened that made things interesting.

According to Sherlock. John didn't care for the development. Greg decided to wait before he formed an opinion.

Just as the consulting detective was adding another acid to a piece of lung, someone rung the door bell.

Mrs. Hudson let him in before John could even open the door of the flat, and they heard her converse with their visitor.

Sherlock stood up and walked into the living room, but didn't seem concerned.

"Mrs. Hudson is obviously not worried."

"He could be a hit man, they are good at – "

"I find it hard to believe that a hit man would simply ring the door bell."

A moment later, they heard a polite "Go right up" and steps on the stairs.

A man opened the door.

He looked at Sherlock.

"Timothy Carew is lying dead in an alleyway behind the house."

John and Greg stared; Sherlock simply nodded and took out his phone.

"I'll see that the body is taken care of."

"Sherlock..." John began, but before he could form a question, the consulting detective introduced their visitor.

"John, Greg, this is Tobias Marshall. He is the one who warned me about the offer on my head. He also happens to be a hit man."


	5. The Visitor

John Watson had seen many things during his friendship with Sherlock Holmes.

He had not thought, however, that he would ever find himself in the company of a man who not only confessed to a crime, but was a member of the very profession that was targeting his best friend at the moment.

He moved without having thought about it, but Sherlock stopped him.

"John. It's okay".

He turned around and stared at the consulting detective.

"Okay? He is a hit man. He killed a man. He told us where his body is. And you are not concerned?"

"I told you that he's the one who warned me in the first place" Sherlock argued calmly while pressing the send button so Mycroft would take care of the body.

"Maybe he just wants to get close – "

"I wouldn't have rung the bell. I had other methods" Tobias Marshall stated. "And yes, _had_. I quit".

"So we're supposed to – "

John turned to Greg.

"Are you not going to arrest him?"

The DI shrugged.

"I don't think I would be able to prove anything. And he just killed one of the hit men who were after Sherlock – to be honest, I would have done the same thing".

Not since he had called John to warm him that they were coming to arrest the consulting detective had he shown such proof of his trust in Sherlock. John closed his mouth. Greg was waiting for more of an explanation, Sherlock wasn't concerned that a hit man was standing in their flat, so he might as well hear the whole story.

"I didn't expect you" Sherlock said.

"I didn't expect to come here myself" the hit man answered before walking past them and sitting down on the sofa. "I did, though. And I just got rid of one of the best – I suspect he wanted to make his move rather sooner than later."

"So you killed him" John still found it difficult to believe that someone could just casually walk into a flat and announce that he had committed murder.

He had killed several people in his life, but most of them in battle, and the others – either they had attacked Sherlock, or they had attacked him. But he hadn't just killed them because he knew they were criminals.

"Of course. It was only a matter of time."

John was starting to doubt his sanity. They didn't need a psychopath to deal with, not when there were already several after Sherlock, but the consulting detective simply looked on, deducing Marshall.

Greg –

The doctor couldn't read his friend, which was unusual. Normally, all of the DI's emotions were displayed on his face, whether he was angry, disgusted or pleased – John suspected this was one of the reasons he hadn't been promoted to DCI yet.

Now, however –

And then John realized what he hadn't seen before.

He should have paid more attention to what the DI was saying.

_I would have done the same thing._

He had meant it. He was glad that the hit man was lying dead in an alleyway.

John had known for a long time that he must be a little mad, running after someone who claimed to be a high-functioning sociopath at all hours. Waiting for him when he died. Forgiving him immediately after he returned.

He had never wondered about Greg, though, had never considered that a man who offered a job to a drug addict couldn't be normal either.

At least they were all in this together.

He scrutinized the hit man, not for the first time wishing that he could deduce people like his best friend. Tobias Marshall spoke with an American accent – not particularly heavy, but still noticeable; he was taller than him, but shorter than Sherlock, and had made himself comfortable on the sofa as if he belonged there. He had black hair and blue eyes – all in all his appearance was rather striking, and John wondered how he could kill people without being noticed. Then again, he didn't look like one typically imagined a hit man, and that might be of advantage in his profession.

All in all, he looked like a man John might have thought it safe to trust before being told what he did for a living. The thought was unsettling.

The man stared calmly back.

"Was Timothy Carew the first?" Sherlock asked.

"The first I saw. I bet others are on their way, though. I was just going to drop by, take a quick look around, but then I saw him checking out the back of the house... Had a gun with him. Surprised me a bit. He preferred the garrotte. Guess he just wanted to get in the flat, kill everyone who happened to be there, and take the money".

"Unoriginal" Sherlock murmured, and John could have sworn that something like amusement showed on Marshall's face for a moment.

"Yeah. I thought the same – normally, he was more creative. But the money must have got to his head. He certainly was completely focused on the house. He didn't see me coming".

"So you killed him" John said.

Marshall shrugged.

"Of course."

It would be "of course" for him, John figured. He was a hit man; he had probably been working as one so long that calling the police or simply knocking the other man hadn't occurred to him.

John supposed it was no great loss – he had killed someone who wanted to break into their house and kill Sherlock, and possibly him and Mrs. Hudson too, and he might have shot Greg as well to get rid of all witnesses – but still, someone should care.

"Did you use a gun?" Greg asked.

The hit man turned to look at the DI before inquiring, "DI Lestrade, isn't it?"

He had done his research before coming here.

Greg nodded. "I'm not going to arrest you though, if that's what you're asking".

"I thought so, based on your reaction. And no. I have a silencer, but I didn't want to risk him making noises. I slit his throat".

"Better get rid of the knife then" Greg stated casually, and John wondered when his life had become so mad.

The obvious answer was when he'd met Sherlock, obviously.

"Already did – gutter a few streets down. Anyway, now that we have cleared that up – I assume you have no idea who put out the hit on you."

The last comment was directed at Sherlock. The consulting detective sat down in his chair and shook his head.

"And the list of possible candidates is rather long, I gather".

"Since you have already reached the right conclusion, I see no need to elaborate."

There followed a brief silence, and John contemplated making tea – Mrs. Hudson had only left them half an hour ago, but he certainly could need a cuppa – when he realized what he was thinking. Sherlock seemed to trust Tobias Marshall – at least enough to let him sit on the sofa – and while that ensured him John's trust as well, he still needed to know more about this man.

"How did you meet?" he asked Sherlock.

"During my travels" was the brief answer. John bit his lip. There was only one time Sherlock could be alluding to, and the doctor wasn't particularly keen to hear about the circumstances that had led him to befriend a hit man.

Had Sherlock worked with him? Had Marshall helped him somehow? They didn't keep in contact, John was reasonably sure of that. He would have noticed if his flatmate had got any calls from someone he'd never heard of before who wasn't a client. True, Sherlock could have kept it from him, but why should he?

John shook himself; Sherlock was allowed to have other friends. He shouldn't obsess over this, especially when there were more pressing matters at hand.

And Marshall had warned Sherlock. He had warned him and had flown in from America to – to what exactly, John didn't know. He might want to help them with their research, or he might just have decided to kill as many hit men targeting Sherlock as possible.

All he knew was that Sherlock hadn't expected him. He knew his best friend well enough to tell that Marshall's appearance had surprised him, and the consulting detective would have told them that he was on his way here, if only to give them time to get used to the thought.

John decided that he would be on his guard, but Marshall hadn't given him any reason to mistrust him. And if Sherlock was fine with him sitting in their flat, so was he for the time being.

Sherlock's text alert rang out.

He read the text and announced, "Mycroft's men have got rid of the body."

"Is he on his way?" John asked because the British Government most likely wanted an explanation. He had probably watched the footage from Marshall entering the house and already come to the conclusion who had killed Carew.

"The text is from Anthea. She doesn't mention it, but I have no doubt that Mycroft will arrive within the next ten minutes."

"Mycroft?" Marshall asked.

"My brother" Sherlock replied.

"The blog doesn't mention him" the other man commented.

"He is the British Government. He prefers people to be ignorant of his existence, and quite frankly, I would prefer to be as well."

The hit man smiled for the first time since he had entered the flat, and John found that it made him more human. Before, even though he had been polite, the doctor had felt like something was missing.

Marshall wasn't exactly cold, but he wasn't friendly either. There was something about the way he kept looking from one of them to the others, almost as if he wasn't used talking to people.

He just didn't know what to make of the hit man who had read his blog and flown halfway across the globe to save a man who hadn't mentioned him once.

"So your brother is the one who hid the body?"

Sherlock snorted at the idea, John heard Greg's muffled laughter and couldn't help but join. The idea of Mycroft Holmes doing legwork was rather funny, he had to admit.

Marshall didn't look confused by their reaction, which led John to once more wonder if he simply didn't care or if he didn't interact much with others and therefore didn't see anything weird in it.

The door bell rang and they heard Mrs. Hudson let in Mycroft, telling him that they had a visitor.

The British Government entered the room and scrutinized Marshall.

"Mycroft Holmes. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Marshall".

The hit man didn't seem surprised that Sherlock's brother knew who he was. He simply nodded.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. He walked over to the fireplace and sat down in John's chair, opposite Sherlock.

"I have to say that you get more and more creative in the choice of your friends, brother mine. Did you fail to mention that Mr. Marshall would honour us with his visit, or was it a spontaneous decision of his?"

John, Greg and Marshall were silent, waiting for the brothers to get to the point. When the doctor looked at the hit man once more, there was a look in his eyes he couldn't read.

"I didn't know he'd be coming" Sherlock answered sounding bored. "He was – "

"Your source. Obviously." Mycroft turned to the hit man. "You don't happen to know who offered the money, would you? It would make things easier."

"I have no idea" Marshall answered seriously, ignoring the hint of sarcasm in Mycroft's voice.

"Once of my old contacts called me. No one knows who is behind it".

Mycroft nodded. He stood up.

"Sherlock, I advise you to be cautious and stay in your flat – although I already know you will not listen to reason." He turned to the other men in the room. "I trust you will keep my brother safe, John – Greg". They both nodded.

"Mr. Marshall, I am indebted to you for taking care of Timothy Carew."

"You got rid of the body. If anything, I owe you".

Mycroft looked at the hit man again, deducing him once more before sweeping out of the room.

Greg sighed.

"So, now that that's behind us – what about these other hit men, Mr. Marshall? Anything you can tell us?"

John was definitely going to make more tea.


	6. Expertise

What Tobias Marshall told them was far from encouraging.

John had never considered how many hit men there must be in the World.

And they didn't know how many had got the message either. Considering that Marshall had quit and he had still been contacted, probably as many as the employer could reach.

Plus, they didn't even know who to look out for. Marshall knew some of the hit men by side, but had only heard of others, couldn't tell them the real names of several more, or their gender, for that matter –

And, of course, there were bound to be others of whose existence it was unaware.

John turned to Sherlock.

"I am not going to stay here and wait" the consulting detective stated matter-of-factly.

"Sherlock – "

"Timothy Carew already got here. It's only a matter of time before others follow. What difference does it make?"

"Remember Moran? If you're on a street and a sniper – "

"I'll keep moving".

"As if that's – "

"Sherlock is right" Marshall interrupted him. "On the streets, he keeps moving and a sniper has to keep track on him. In the flat, the sniper simply has to wait."

John looked at Greg, who had sat down next to the sniper on the sofa.

The DI sighed.

"I think we'll have to trust the professional on this".

He was right, if course. They should be glad there was a hit man on their side, one who had not only warned Sherlock, but was ready to help him.

Again, John found himself speculating why. Had Sherlock saved his life? Maybe the consulting detective hadn't had him arrested when he'd had the chance, for whatever reason. Maybe they had worked together? John was sure that Sherlock had done things he wasn't proud of, things he would rather forget – a hit man might have come in handy.

He didn't like the thought, but it was a possibility. And whatever had happened – Tobias Marshall was here now, protecting Sherlock.

"The tea's really good" the hit man suddenly said, and John looked at him, somewhat puzzled. Not because of the change of topic – he had lived with Sherlock long enough not to be fazed by it – but because, no matter what Marshall said, he always sounded completely calm and somewhat detached, as if the last thought that had gone through his mind was the most important to ever occur to him.

He'd been right, John decided. Tobias Marshall was obviously not used talking to people.

He realized he hadn't replied yet and that the hit man was still looking at him, patiently waiting.

"Thank you. Would you like some more?"

He happily held out his cup, looking surprisingly grateful.

While John was refilling it, he stated, "We should really find whoever you pissed off enough to put a hit on you".

The doctor waited for Sherlock to remark that he was stating the obvious, but he didn't.

Instead, the consulting detective sighed. "I am aware that we have to find the person. Sadly, it won't be an easy task, if not even my brother has found a clue".

Marshall nodded. He had accepted Mycroft's being the British Government remarkably quickly – in fact, he hadn't thought about it at all – and John thought that maybe, there were others like the older Holmes in other countries Marshall knew about.

He didn't know if the possibility should scare him or not.

"Do you think we might find the man or woman in one of our old files?" Greg asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"This is more than some ordinary revenge plot. Most people would have been satisfied with sending one hit man after me. I can't think of many who would think off putting out an open offer. And most of them are dead".

He had a faraway look in his eyes. John bit his lip.

"One obviously isn't" Marshall commented. "Maybe an old friend of this Moriarty?"

"We put his best man behind bars" John answered. Plus, he thought, Moran wouldn't have done something like that. He had wanted to kill Sherlock on his own, to avenge the death of the man he couldn't live without. Sometimes in the dark hours of the night, John admitted to himself that he knew what this felt like and that he was glad that Moriarty had shot himself on that rooftop.

Capturing Moran didn't rule out other members of Moriarty's web, though. Maybe one had slipped through Sherlock's fingers.

"Aside from Moran, no one is desperate to take revenge for his death" Sherlock said slowly, "and I do think they would be more creative".

"Maybe it's not about creativity" Marshall argued. "Maybe it's about getting the job done. Someone is obviously desperate to see you dead".

They were silent for a moment, then the hit man began again.

"Let's start from the beginning. What have you done?"

Sherlock blinked.

"Like I said, someone really doesn't like you. Therefore, you must have done something really – "

He didn't get to finish the sentence; Sherlock sprang up and started pacing up and down, muttering to himself.

"Too busy looking behind – as they knew I would be – oh, this is brilliant."

Marshall was obviously going to ask – John and Greg content with simply waiting – when his eyes widened.

"You mean – " the hit man started. Sherlock interrupted him impatiently.

"Of course. It makes sense. Quite frankly, why would someone want me dead when I have put him into jail already? And about business or the death of someone they cared about – this is too impersonal. As you said, just getting the job done."

"That's clever" Marshall replied, clearly impressed.

John looked from him to Sherlock. Greg cleared his throat.

"Not that I'm not glad you two are getting along, but what is going on?"

"Think, Greg, think! Why would someone have me killed for something I already did?"

The DI shot him an exasperated look.

"Greg, this isn't just anyone putting a hit on me. This is someone making an open offer to anyone who is capable of killing me. Someone wants me dead. And soon".

John could almost see the thoughts flying through Greg's brain. Then, the DI's mouth opened, but he couldn't make a sound.

Apparently John was the only one who hadn't realized what was going on –

Wait a moment. If Sherlock believed that no one would put such a hit on him for something he'd done –

There was still the possibility that someone wanted him dead for something he was _about to do_.

"Are you saying that you might – "

"Either prevent or solve a crime that hasn't been committed yet" Sherlock finished.

"So basically we have to find someone who hasn't committed a crime but will in the near future?"

"Sounds about right" Marshall answered.

"I guess you have experience with this kind of... jobs" John said after trying to find the right word for killing a person for money and failing.

Marshall shrugged. "I never know why. I only knew who".

The doctor nodded and reminded himself that this man had helped Sherlock, no matter that he had killed people in the past.

He wondered if he was the only one in the room to care, since Sherlock was obviously working on the case and Greg didn't seem concerned.

Of course he wasn't, he chided himself; he was simply the only one not focusing on the task at hand. For God's sake, he'd been a soldier. He could do this.

And if Tobias Marshall was a sociopath he was certainly a lot less dangerous than others of his sort John had met.

To them, anyway.

"Whatever this person is going to do" Greg announced "It's going to be something big. Something only you could solve."

"There is not only me" Sherlock answered.

"Something to do with legwork then" the Di replied automatically.

"Sorry?" Marshall inquired.

Sherlock waved a hand in the air.

"Mycroft doesn't like doing anything that involves more than sitting in his office".

"I see" the hit man said as if that explained everything. "But doesn't he have files on all the major criminals in England, if he's that important?"

"I am not sure we're dealing with someone we have encountered before, not when our new theory is correct. He or she might be trying to prevent ever being noticed by having me killed."

"A bit sure of yourself that you could, are you?"

The teasing tone of the hit man's voice took John by surprise, and when he glanced at Greg, he could see that the DI was staring at the hit man with the same astonishment on his face.

Sherlock simply smirked.

The exchange implied something like a friendship between him and Tobias Marshall, and John didn't know how to feel about that.

On the one hand, Sherlock deserved to be cared for by more than a handful of people.

On the other hand, thinking of him and the DI and even Mrs. Hudson, not to mention the consulting detective's personality – John wasn't sure if he needed anymore adrenaline junkies, questionable work ethics or an interesting past around him.

"Someone seems to be certain that I can" he answered.

"We know that" Greg commented. "But other than that, we have nothing to go on – "

"I wouldn't say that" Sherlock said immediately.

The DI tilted his head.

"Enlighten me, please".

"Not one hit men has been sent to kill me. Not just one. _Several_ " Sherlock explained slowly, as if talking to a child, enunciating every word.

Neither John nor Greg understood, but when the former finally wanted to ask, Marshall started talking. He talked so quickly that he almost stumbled over his words, and John was almost reminded of Sherlock when he got overexcited and he had to calm him down so others would understand what he was saying.

"They want you out of the way quick – you have to die soon, or their plan won't work – you have to be out of the way by the time they commit whatever crime they're planning... But having sent someone to kill you before would have prompted an investigation, therefore they waited until everything is ready – and as soon as you are dead – "

Sherlock nodded. "That seems to be the plan". He looked almost impressed. John bit his lip and shared a look with Greg.

"Which means that we can expect many attempts on your life in a very short space of time" Greg sighed.

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked down on the floor. John knew this look; the look when something had occurred to Sherlock, something he would rather not think about.

"You should go."

He said it like he was stating a fact, like he had accidentally exploded the microwave once more, and John swallowed.

"This is more dangerous than any other situation you might have found yourselves in before –"

"More dangerous than Moriarty?" John asked, before he could stop himself. He avoided mentioning the consulting criminal because he didn't want to think about him, about those three years. He avoided it because they had been filled with grief and limping around London and wishing for the impossible.

"Moriarty wanted to play. He knew killing you would only be of value at the end of the game. Now you are simply in the way."

"So you expect us to leave you alone?" Greg jumped up from the sofa just as John started to shout Marshall sat in the same spot he'd been in since he'd come, not moving a muscle.

"No, Sherlock. I left you alone once. I am not going to do it again – "

"Same goes for me. This time, I'm here."

Sherlock looked from John to Greg. The doctor could only recall a few times when his face had been so open – one of them had been the pool, another when he had returned. Sherlock swallowed and nodded.

"In this case – I'm glad you are staying." He moved towards the sofa.

"Tobias?"

John didn't miss him addressing the hit man by his first name, but was too curious what Marshall would say to think about it.

He stared back at Sherlock, clearly astonished, before slowly standing up.

"I have survived enough. If that's my end, so be it. But I'm not going, not until you send me away."

Sherlock didn't say anything.

John was busy reflecting on the irony that he had once sworn to protect innocents and was now in league with an ex hit man.


	7. Living Arrangements

"Where are you staying?" the doctor asked.

Marshall shrugged his shoulders.

"I got off the plane and came here directly. Just point me to a good motel – "

"You can stay here" Sherlock announced.

John frowned but the consulting detective shook his head.

"He saved our lives. And he is certainly practical to keep around" he pointed out.

"Fine" Greg answered instead of John, "but I get the sofa. I'm older".

"I've slept on the floor often enough. Once more won't do any harm" Marshall said matter-of-factly.

"Mrs. Hudson will gladly allow you to stay in her guest bedroom – "

"Sherlock, can we talk?" John interrupted him. He'd had enough.

Working with a hit man they barely knew to keep Sherlock safe was one thing, but the ex hit man staying in their or Mrs. Hudson's flat –

At the moment they could trust Marshall, John figured; but what if he eventually decided that he wanted the money?

And then another thought occurred to him; his faith in Sherlock, the consulting detective' trust in their visitor had blinded him to the possibility so far, but what if Marshall was just pretending to help them?

He hadn't only killed someone who was a danger to them; he had killed competition too.

He might just wait for the right moment. When John and Greg where asleep, whenever he could get Sherlock alone.

Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him into his bedroom, forcefully closing the door behind them.

The consulting detective raised an eyebrow.

"You can't be serious" John whispered in an attempt to prevent Marshall from eavesdropping.

"He is a hit man – "

"Was a hit man" Sherlock corrected; to John's annoyance, he obviously deemed whispering unnecessary.

"Still – he made his money by killing people – what if he's only playing us so he can get close to you?"

"He could have killed us already" Sherlock stated. "He has the gun he took from Timothy Carew strapped to his ankle."

John rubbed his face.

"You let an armed hit man – ex hit man – take place on our couch. Who has just killed a man by his own admission. And now you want him to move in?"

"You are the one insisting I stay here – I thought you would agree to the extra protection".

"He's dangerous".

"So are we."

"But Mrs. Hudson? Are you seriously suggesting he stays with Mrs. Hudson?"

Sherlock snorted. "She would be more than a match for him, I assure you."

"Sherlock – how did you even meet him? Are you sure we can trust him?"

"If I wasn't, I wouldn't have allowed him in the flat".

John waited for Sherlock to continue, but he never did. The doctor sighed.

"You obviously met him when you were... away" he began. "Did he help you?"

Sherlock nodded and answered reluctantly "He gave me vital information about the Tornton family."

"So he did help you?"

Sherlock murmured something the doctor couldn't understand, but before he could ask what it had been, the consulting detective opened the door and walked back into the living room.

Tobias watched as Sherlock's flatmate dragged him into his (their? He still didn't know what they were to one another, exactly) bedroom and turned to the police officer.

"I guess they don't want us to hear what they're talking about. Might as well get to know each other".

The other man – DI Lestrade, if he remembered correctly – looked at him and narrowed his eyes before finally saying, "I take it that you don't have a lot of experience with that".

He wasn't judging Tobias – not as far as he could tell, but that probably didn't say much, considering he wouldn't be able to, precisely because of that experience he was lacking.

"I am working on it".

"So you really quit?"

"I work as a bartender now".

The DI nodded. He bit his lip and looked at the floor before asking, "How did you and Sherlock meet? I gather it was – "

"During the three years he spent dead" Tobias finished. He still found it difficult to imagine how and why Sherlock had done it – the theories and articles he'd read online had only hinted that it might have to do with protecting someone the consulting detective cared about – but he knew that Sherlock had kidnapped him during that time.

He decided that he probably didn't want his friends to know how they'd met exactly – there had been no indication that they had an idea who Tobias was – and so he simply nodded.

"You helped him?"

"In a manner of speaking".

He had spent months wondering why he had given Sherlock the information he'd needed. Why he had suddenly decided to help this man who kept him captive but gave him food and drink and brought him Christmas dinner because that was what people did.

Then again, he was still wondering what he was doing here. They weren't friends; they weren't acquainted; they certainly weren't colleagues.

But here he was, after having given up his job, the only thing he had ever truly called his, trying to save a madman. Quite frankly, Sherlock's chances to come out of this alive were slim. Tobias knew many former hit men. Not all of them had been as good as he, but many were, and some were even better.

One of them would get to Sherlock. It was only a matter of time.

Their only chance was to find the employer. Tobias wasn't optimistic.

He had done everything he could, really, when he had contacted Sherlock. He had done more than – well, anyone else who'd got the message would have done.

For a few hours, he had been convinced he had done everything.

By the mid-afternoon he had asked for and obtained a holiday from his boss and sat in a plane, without being able to say why.

Slitting Timothy Carew's throat had been easy. The man had been too focused on making the kill and getting the money, always a dangerous mistake, and Tobias had done what he had done for years and murdered him without a second thought.

But, looking back, he realized that it was the first kill for which he was glad. The first kill he believed to be justified.

Not that he had ever felt bad for what he had done (or not until a madman had kidnapped him); it had simply been his job, so he had killed and taken the money. He had never felt anything about it. Some people were scientists, others were killers. There was no reason to wonder or feel anything about it.

But this kill –

Sherlock was safe, if only until a new hit man arrived.

And Tobias was glad and didn't know why.

"And now you're helping him again".

If he wanted to call it that way... Tobias nodded

"Thank you".

Tobias blinked. It took him a moment to understand that the DI was not only thanking him for warning Sherlock, but for killing Carew as well.

Receiving money for it he was used to. Receiving thanks not.

He supposed any DI who worked with Sherlock Holmes had to be a little weird. God knew Sherlock wasn't normal.

Not that Tobias considered himself as such. He supposed no one would think of an ex hit man as normal.

"You're welcome."

Unexpectedly, the other man laughed.

"At least you're polite" he mumbled. "It will be a pleasure rooming with you, I'm sure."

"Doctor Watson seems to be against the idea, DI – "

"Greg, please. Once you've killed for someone..."

"Then I'm Tobias".

He was wondering if they should shake hands when the door opened and Sherlock strolled out, John behind him.

"You can stay" the consulting detective announced – his flatmate was obviously not happy about it, but had given up – and then turned to Greg.

"Since John doesn't like the idea of Tobias staying with Mrs. Hudson, would you sleep in her guest bedroom?"

Greg would rather have stayed with them at all times, but Sherlock was right – John felt uneasy enough about the hit man at 221B in the first place, and he didn't need to worry about Mrs. Hudson as well. Plus their landlady always had excellent tea and biscuits.

"No problem. I am going to ask her. Be back in a second".

"I cannot see how she could possibly be against it" John remarked sarcastically. It broke the tension, and Sherlock turned around to give him a half-smile.

The doctor cleared his throat and stood up straight; Tobias was reminded that he was an ex-soldier.

"Now that that's out of the way... where are your things?"

"I left a bag on the stairs. It's not much. I always travel light".

The doctor mustered him with a strange mixture of mistrust and worry before asking, "Why didn't you bring it with you right away?"

"He didn't know if he wouldn't be attacked. He used to be a hit man, after all" Sherlock replied.

Tobias smiled at the consulting detective and John was left to frown at the understanding between him and his friend.


	8. A Theory

Greg walked slowly down the stairs, passing a small back on the seventeenth step. He hoped that John wasn't too angry; whether or not the doctor liked it, the hit man had proved to be a good addition to the team by killing the first threat to Sherlock's life.

If he only had done this to try –

Greg would kill Tobias Marshall himself, if he had to.

Although he wasn't as worried as John. For one simple reason.

He trusted the strange ex hit man who had suddenly shown up at 221B.

He couldn't say why – although Sherlock's belief in him certainly helped – but he felt that the man was telling the truth. Not all of it, obviously – how he and the consulting detective had met still remained a mystery, and Greg wasn't sure he wanted to know – but that he had come to help Sherlock.

And he had warned him.

Of course it could just be a trick, an attempt to make them trust him before murdering the consulting detective in his sleep –

No. Greg simply didn't believe it. There was something about the easy understanding Sherlock shared with this man that made him decide to trust Tobias Marshall.

Plus, he was here, and John was here. They would both be on their guard.

But, until proven guilty, he would continue to treat Tobias like one of them.

He couldn't deny that he would have preferred to stay in 221B – in fact, he would have preferred not to let Sherlock out of his sight at all times, impossible as it was – but it couldn't be helped. If John felt better if the ex hit man stayed with them instead of their landlady, Greg was ready to sleep at Mrs. Hudson's. Besides, he would still be spending every waking moment in their flat.

He knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door.

The landlady opened it quickly, smiling when she saw him.

"Greg! Come in". She ushered him into the living room and after he had declined her offer of another cup of tea, she asked, "Has the young man left?"

The tone of her voice told Greg that she had wondered whether or not Tobias was to be trusted and had decided that he was; John was right – she was tougher than she looked.

"No. In fact, he's going to stay for a while... He's a friend of Sherlock's. He wants to help".

Her face brightened. "That's lovely. Hopefully it will all be over soon".

"Yes" Greg replied, because he couldn't think of anything else to say, "But there is a problem – "

"They only have two bedrooms and a sofa" she finished, eying him curiously.

The DI cleared his throat.

"Exactly. I don't want to leave them alone, though, and since you have a guest bedroom..."

The landlady understood immediately.

"Of course. I don't have the room for nothing. You can stay as long as it takes. Just look after them, will you?"

He promised her he'd do what he could and walked back upstairs to fetch his bag. He noted that Tobias Marshall's had gone; he must have taken it in the flat while he was at Mrs. Hudson's.

The tension that had been hanging in the air when he left was still there; John was once more in the kitchen, making tea with quick practiced movements; Sherlock was pacing around, obviously going through his mind palace, while Tobias watched him intrigued from the sofa.

Greg gave the ex hit man a quick nod to show that everything was alright and brought his bag into Mrs. Hudson's guest room before returning.

John was still in the kitchen. The DI knew was one of the ways the doctor coped with stress; at least it didn't involve shooting at the walls.

He shot Tobias a look; he was still watching Sherlock, and Greg was sure he wouldn't follow if he tried to speak to John.

The situation was difficult enough without tension between those who were here to protect Sherlock.

He walked into the kitchen.

John was looking out the window, careful not to be seen.

The DI cleared his throat.

"Mrs. Hudson's letting me stay at her place."

"Good".

"John, I know this is difficult – "

"You trust him?" The doctor turned around and stared at Greg.

"Yes. I do. He killed a man for Sherlock. That is good enough in my book".

John was silent. They had never spoken about the fact that Greg knew it was the doctor who had shot Jeff Hope on the day he and Sherlock had met. He had known, he had always known who had killed the cab driver. From the moment the consulting detective began to stutter and refused to continue his deductions – which had never happened before. And the look he had given John –

Greg might not be Sherlock Holmes, but he was a good police officer with many years of experience, and he knew what it meant.

He had never considered pulling John in for questioning. He had allowed the investigation to slowly drift into obscurity. A serial killer had been stopped, and Sherlock Holmes was still alive. It was enough.

He hoped the remainder would suffice to make John trust Tobias for the time being.

John stared at the DI. He had wondered if Greg knew what had happened on that day now and then; and he couldn't deny that Marshall had saved Sherlock's life.

John had been blinded by the fact that he was a former hit man. He hadn't considered that he had done the same for Sherlock Holmes.

He rubbed his neck.

The kettle whistled; Greg, who once more proved that he was a good friend, took it off the stove and left him too sort out his thoughts.

Maybe John hadn't had any right to be angry about Marshall's presence. They could use all the help they could get. And Tobias Marshall knew how hit men thought, how they operated. Under the circumstances, he was the best that could have happened to them.

"You do drink a lot of tea" the hit man said in the living room and John couldn't help but smile.

He would still be on his guard around Marshall – this could be an attempt to get close before killing them, who knew – but for now, he was giving him the benefit of the doubt.

He had gone into the kitchen when Marshall had gone out to search for his bag, and only now paid attention to the small bundle sitting in front of the sofa.

It was small indeed, this grey bag.

It reminded John of how few possessions he'd called his own when he had returned from Afghanistan. Of an empty flat. Of lonely days and sleepless nights. Of countless hours of useless therapy.

It was one of the things that had drawn him to 221B the moment he'd entered it; the sheer amount of things Sherlock owned. It should have felt stuffed, but instead it felt homely. John had known that he wanted to move in as soon as he'd set foot in the living room.

It was also one of the reasons he'd come back. His new flat after – it had been empty. Just like the one he'd lived in after Afghanistan.

He wondered how Marshall's flat looked like and couldn't imagine it to be any different.

When the hit man had first entered their home, this thought would have been highly unsettling. Now, John almost felt pity.

"That's all?" he found himself saying, pointing at the bag.

Marshall nodded.

"I told you. I travel light".

Sherlock came out of his mind palace only to start furiously typing on his phone.

"Mycroft?" John inquired.

The consulting detective huffed.

"This is getting ridiculous. He should have something by now – maybe not a name, but a trace, if a slight one – "

John could see how tense and worried his friend was. He understood why, of course. Even if he hadn't before, the consulting detective's half-hearted attempt to make them leave would have told him.

Sherlock Holmes would rather die than see one of his friends get hurt.

God knew he had proved that.

"Where is Mycroft's surveillance team anyway?" Greg asked. "They certainly didn't spot Timothy Carew, and I can't see them".

"And you won't. Also, he will have exchanged them for another team by now. Mycroft doesn't allow mistakes".

John would have felt sorry for the agents, if they hadn't endangered Sherlock's life.

"One knows how to spot them" the hit man's calm voice broke through his thoughts.

"Many would be able to get rid of the team before attacking Sherlock".

The man's calm demeanour was somewhat comforting; he didn't try to hide the truth from them, no matter how bad it was.

While John couldn't say if this was the result of Marshall not having had any human contact for a long period of time, or if he was genuinely trying to be nice in his way, it helped.

It endeared him a little to the doctor, simply because it reminded him of his best friend.

The best friend who got only more worried as the minutes and hours passed.

They – John and Greg, Marshall was content with sitting on the sofa and watching their discussion – finally convinced him to at least stay in the flat until Mycroft found a clue or until the person responsible revealed himself – or at the very least until another attempt was made on Sherlock's life that proved that 221B was no longer safe.

Eventually, Sherlock had enough, threw his arms up in the air and grabbed his violin. He disappeared in his room and moments later the screeching noises he usually reserved for visits from Mycroft began.

"Does he usually play like that?" Marshall asked without any hint of sarcasm in his voice, and John chuckled.

"Not all the time" Greg replied.

Sherlock knew that neither John nor Greg could stand the noises he was making for long; but it was either that or shooting the walls, and Mrs. Hudson had made it clear that she didn't approve of that.

He hated being locked in. He had hated it when he hadn't been allowed to leave the mansion as a child because he was too small to run around and look for hidden treasure on his own, according to his mother; hated it when Mycroft forced him to detox in his house and all he saw where the same four walls.

And now someone had imprisoned him in his own flat.

He was thankful that his friends were trying to protect him – but at the same time, 221B felt too small with so many people in it. He could tolerate it for a few hours – birthday and Christmas parties – but when he didn't know how long this was going to last...

He put the violin down and concentrated on the case. The sooner he solved it, the sooner things could return to normal.

Whoever wanted him dead was going to commit a crime, and not just any crime.

A crime Sherlock would do everything to solve.

Murder or a terrorist attack came to mind.

Whoever had done this knew enough about London to want Sherlock out of the way – although, with the press coverage of his return, that wasn't surprising.

The crime they were going to commit must be not only important, but interesting enough to make him choose to solve it. Everyone who did their research knew he didn't leave the flat for uninteresting cases.

Since they were so desperate to get him out of the way, it was logical that it would be a case he wouldn't give up on, no matter how long it took to –

Sherlock stood still.

He was an idiot.

He had considered murder or a terrorist attack as the most likely crimes to be committed.

There was one person whose death would throw the country into chaos.

Sherlock Holmes' life was in danger.

But so was that of his brother.


	9. Brothers In Danger

Tobias listened as the screeching noises subsided and Sherlock commenced pacing. He seemed to be doing that a lot. He preferred the pacing to the noises – if the consulting detective had done this when he'd asked for information, he would have caved in a lot more quickly.

Since neither of Sherlock's friends decided to check on him, Tobias decided he would eventually come out of the room. John Watson had grabbed a book and did his best to pretend to be reading it, although he could tell he hadn't turned a page in at least ten minutes; the DI was busy with his phone.

Greg was surprisingly accepting, but maybe he could have foreseen that particular development. It was easy to guess that a police officer who let someone who had nothing to do with the force on crime scenes didn't care much for the rules. Also, since he was here instead of working, he definitely chose protecting Sherlock's life over everything.

Not that Tobias could say anything against it. He could be at the bar right now, trying to build up a life that didn't involve killing people for money.

Be that as it may, he and DI – he and Greg got along. He wasn't sure about the doctor. He had learnt how to read body language quite early, and it was clear that John Watson wasn't comfortable having him at the flat. As if the whispered fight in Sherlock's bedroom (apparently they did have separate bedrooms, since he'd gone upstairs to fetch his book) hadn't been enough indication.

Tobias could understand where he was coming from, of course. Several hit men were after his best friend, and one showed up at their flat and declared himself to be at their side. He wouldn't trust him either.

But at the same time –

He wasn't sure if "mistrust" was the right word for what John Watson was feeling.

He hadn't treated him with contempt or even suspicion; he had just seemed... worried.

The man had been a soldier. Tobias knew that much. And therefore, he probably didn't appreciate people who killed for a living without a higher goal in mind. Which meant he wouldn't like having a hit man in his flat.

But Sherlock had called him by his first name, and he wasn't scared of him in the least. Despite the offer on his head. Therefore, John Watson had decided to trust him, because Sherlock did.

Somehow, no matter how he thought about the first few hours he had spent in the other men's company, this thought stayed: Sherlock had called him by his first name. And then Greg had followed. For the first time in God knew how long, not only did someone know his first name, but decide to use it.

With Greg, he could understand where he was coming from.

Sherlock –

Tobias didn't know what to think of it. There were moments in which he swore he understood the consulting detective, the way his mind worked, and then there would be minutes where he couldn't even understand what Sherlock was trying to say.

He didn't regret that he'd come, however. He couldn't.

Because without him Timothy Carew might have got into the house. And he definitely preferred a dead hit man to a dead consulting detective.

A consulting detective who had kidnapped him and brought him Christmas dinner.

He wondered when his life had become so complicated. Killing people was easy. Protecting them was not.

Sherlock's brother was the British Government, but even he had not been able to prevent Carew from getting close. And Tobias knew how things worked. Every job could be done. The question wasn't if, the question was when. When to get into the flat or the work place of the target, when to find him on the streets, when he would be alone –

There were countless possibilities to end a life. And many, if not all, hit men he knew were more than capable to take every single one.

The only way to stop Sherlock being murdered was to find the employer, the one who had offered millions to get rid of one man. The consulting detective was right; he must plan something else, something big. If this was about revenge – revenge wasn't like this. Tobias should know. Revenge was quick, in the spur of the moment, revenge was calling one hit man, and only one, to kill someone, and if it didn't work out, either give up or call another hit man. This was planned. This didn't feel like the burning need of revenge – it felt cold. Cold and calculated.

There couldn't be many who dared to put an open hit on Sherlock Holmes. Not if they knew who he was – which was more than likely, otherwise they wouldn't have made the offer to begin with.

Sherlock would figure it out. Sherlock had managed to make him something resembling a human being again, even if he hadn't said anything, hadn't argued with him.

And he still couldn't say why.

He would do what he had always done. Focus on the job at hand. He could deal with what it meant later, because for the first time, it did mean something to him.

The pacing stopped and moments afterwards, the consulting detective's was heard. He spoke to softly to figure out who he was talking to, but it was probably that strange brother of his, Sherlock wanting to know if he'd made any progress.

As soon as he had come to the conclusion that Mycroft's life was in danger, Sherlock took out his phone.

He answered after the first ring.

"I would have told you if we had made any form of progress – "

"I am reasonably sure that the person behind this is going to try to murder you".

A brief silence followed as Mycroft processed the information and went through all possible scenarios.

"It is possible."

"At the moment, it is the best theory we have".

"I will make sure that certain individuals are – "

Sherlock had known Mycroft kept files on "certain individuals", as he put it, in his house. The only reason he did so when he could easily have memorized them was the fact that these people knew about them. It was a sort of insurance policy.

"We are on our way".

He expected Mycroft to refuse; there was still the offer on his head, and the British Government didn't tolerate visits of strangers. He knew John and Greg, but wouldn't normally allow them into his house, and Tobias was a hit man he had no reason to trust.

He wouldn't let his brother deal with this himself, however, and he wouldn't be able to slip away unnoticed, so Mycroft would have to deal with it.

Apparently the British Government realized that he couldn't dissuade him and sighed.

"You will take care that your friends behave themselves".

At least he hadn't said anything against them coming to his house. Sherlock counted it as the victory it was and hung up without another word. He knew that Mycroft would send a limousine – he had accepted what Sherlock was going to do and therefore wouldn't allow him to walk out in the open for longer than necessary, especially after the situation with Carew – and that it would take about ten minutes to get to Baker Street, long enough to fill the others in.

Sherlock stopped talking abruptly. Tobias heard him move before the DI and the doctor noticed and therefore was the least surprised when the consulting detective barged through his bedroom door.

John looked up, startled – normally Sherlock stayed in this mood for longer than an hour – and it only took him a second to realize something was wrong.

Sherlock was worried, even more so than before.

He stood up, not caring that his book fell on the carpet, and was at his friend's side within seconds. Greg followed him immediately, Marshall stayed on the sofa.

"Sherlock?"

"Mycroft".

"What about – "

"Your brother is in danger".

It was a statement, not a question, and once again it came from the ex hit man.

John looked at Sherlock and waited for his best friend to elaborate, which he did.

"We know the crime to be committed has to be big, big enough that I would be called in, big enough that I wouldn't stop until I solved it.

While I have worked for the Secret Service occasionally – " he made a face and John couldn't fight the grin. Even now the consulting detective didn't like thinking about working for his brother "mostly I am called in on murders. Now, obviously the person who is about to be murdered is someone important. Someone it can't be easy to kill. Someone who is needed to ensure the smooth running of the country – "

"And not only wouldn't you be there to solve his murder, if you were killed, but Mycroft is distracted from ensuring his own safety because he's looking for the person who put the hit on you" Greg interrupted him. "I have to admit it is a good plan".

"That may be" John said, "but what now? The list of people who want to kill Mycroft must be even longer than – "

"Not that long, actually" Sherlock replied quietly. "Think, John. Yes, Mycroft runs the country. But how many people know that?"

John didn't know the answer. He had never been aware, hadn't suspected that a single man was the British Government until Mike Stamford had introduced him to Sherlock and his brother had had him kidnapped.

He wouldn't be surprised to find that most politicians didn't know who was the real power either and simply thought Mycroft Holmes was a hard-working employee. If there was anyone who could get away with manipulating the most powerful men in the country, making sure they only made the decisions he wanted them to make while leading them to believe it to be theirs, it would be him.

"There is everyone he's ever kidnapped – I'm certain some of them might hold a grudge" Greg commented lightly.

Sherlock was going to reply but then saw the small smile on the DI's face and thought better of it.

Tobias was starting to wonder if kidnapping people was a family tradition. He had never cared much for his family – not that it had been large to begin with, they hadn't been particularly fond of him either and they couldn't have said to have any traditions, really – but it did seem a little impractical.

"Am I to understand that Mycroft kidnaps people on a regular basis?"

"He makes a habit of kidnapping and interrogating everyone I meet more than once" Sherlock answered.

Tobias nodded and chose not to comment.

"Either way – we are going to find the most likely candidates in Mycroft's file cabinet. A limousine will be picking us up shortly – "

His text alert rang out and Sherlock read the message.

"The driver is here" he announced.

The others followed him as he went downstairs, Mrs. Hudson shuffling out of her flat to tell them to be careful.

The door of the limousine was already open, and Sherlock was about to enter when it happened.

He felt a sharp pull on his arm, heard the sound of shattering plaster, and then he was lying on the pavement, Tobias hovering over him; he turned his head to find John and Greg crouching next to them, their eyes roaming over his body to make sure he hadn't been ensured; a bullet had crashed into the wall of the house next to 221B, passing where Sherlock's head would have been if he hadn't been dragged down.

"Move" the hit man hissed it.

Sherlock quickly sprang into the car, Tobias waited for Greg and John to get in before doing so himself, and then the limousine was rushing away.


	10. Files And A Suspect

As the car razed away, John turned to Sherlock and checked him for injuries, despite his protests.

The doctor took a few minutes to satisfy himself before turning to Greg and Marshall, who simply shook their heads. John knew he should have looked after them long before now – as soon as he had realized that Sherlock hadn't been shot – but he hadn't been able to. This was the second attempt on Sherlock's life in a day. Within hours.

A thought occurred to him.

"How did you know?" he demanded, perhaps a bit more harshly than he intended, but neither he nor the DI had suspected anything until the hit man had tackled Sherlock. And he had done so just in time.

Marshall didn't seem to be angry about his suspicions, though.

"The sun was reflected by the sniper rifle" he replied. "It was luck."

"It's certainly lucky we have you here" Greg commented, stealing a glance at Sherlock, who was apparently not worried at all about what had happened and looking out the window.

"Yes, we – " John cleared his throat. Timothy Carew – he could have thought that Marshall was simply getting rid of the competition. But this – it might have just been a ploy to make them trust him, but it was somewhat dangerous, considering he put himself in the line of fire. And there was no reason to think he had anything to do with it, except his profession, which he had given up – and Sherlock seemed to believe that he had.

"Thank you" he finally finished. He meant it. If he hadn't dragged the consulting detective to the ground, Sherlock would be –

He refused to think about it. Not again. Never again.

Marshall stared at him for a moment before nodding.

"I can't say who did this, I'm afraid" he said.

Sherlock didn't look away from the window; he simply waved a hand and answered, "It doesn't matter".

"It doesn't matter? What do you mean, it doesn't matter? Sherlock, this was close – " Greg tried, but the other man shook his head.

"There are more important things to consider than a few hit men that are trying to kill me".

Greg couldn't agree, but he knew where Sherlock was coming from. Of course he knew. He had seen Mycroft's grief at his brother's death – he might have been one of the few in England who had – when he had decided to give the elder Holmes his condolences. Because Sherlock was dead, John wasn't talking to anyone, and he had simply felt lonely. Mycroft hadn't said much. But Greg had seen the regret in his eyes. And now and then, over the next three years, the British Government had had him kidnapped, under the pretence of finding out how John was doing. The DI had never commented on it, and he had never told anyone about it.

Just like he had never told anyone that sometimes, when Sherlock was still and addict and he would watch him at night to make sure he hadn't taken an overdose, the younger man had mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like his brother's name.

He knew the two Holmes cared about each other. He knew Mycroft regretted giving Moriarty the information; he knew he had paid for it in the year he hadn't known Sherlock was still alive – the consulting detective had eventually had to contact him, to gain information, naturally, simply to gain information. He knew Sherlock cared for his brother as well. He knew that the consulting detective must be worried. But if he didn't want to talk, there was nothing he could do about it.

He would do what he had always done – trying to be there for a man who always pretended he didn't need anyone.

Used to, anyway. Sherlock had changed since he'd come back from the dead.

Greg didn't pry. He and John exchanged a glance that made it clear the doctor wouldn't, either, and Tobias didn't try to break the silence either.

A little while later, they arrived at Mycroft's mansion. John was the first to leave the car; he quickly ushered them all in the direction of the house and stood guard as Sherlock opened the door with a key Greg that didn't want to know how he'd obtained and shut off the alarm. When the DI turned around, he realized that Tobias was watching the street while he himself had unconsciously moved to shield the consulting detective with his body.

For an ex-soldier, a former hit man and a rather unconventional police man, they made a good team.

It seemed an eternity until Sherlock finally opened the door, and the DI fancied that even his shoulders slumped slightly in relief once they were inside.

"Mycroft?" he asked.

"He will be here shortly" Sherlock answered. "I do not think he will allow us to stay in house unsupervised, and he is going to keep an eye on his files too, I imagine".

"Does he live here alone?"

Sherlock turned to Tobias and raised an eyebrow. It was answer enough.

"It's just a really big house."

The ex hit man sounded genuinely impressed.

Considering that he only travelled with a small bag and had probably only ever seen such houses from the inside when he had had a job to do, the DI wasn't surprised.

Maybe that he could think so casually about Tobias' former profession should have worried him, but it didn't.

He knew about instinct, knew what it meant to learn over time to look for things other people didn't see because it was necessary for your job. In his opinion, it wasn't chance that had saved Sherlock's life, it had been instinct, Tobias' instinct, and he would take gladly all the bodies that came with it if it meant his friend was still alive.

It was in moments like this that he was grateful that Mycroft had put an end to the investigation on Sherlock's suicide all these years ago, because the last thing he needed was a psychic evaluation.

Sherlock indicated a direction with his head and said, "Go on in the dining room. I'll fetch the files".

He ran upstairs before they could say anything, and they slowly made their way into a large room with an enormous table and several chairs around it.

Greg had never been to Mycroft's house – the British Government usually had him kidnapped to an abandoned warehouse or brought to his office – but as far as he could tell, it looked like he had imagined it.

Big, rather dark and empty.

Devoid of anything that would make it feel homely.

Tobias didn't mind; he simply looked around and sat down, and Greg smiled as he imagined what the elder Holmes would say if he could see the hit man making himself at home so nonchalantly.

John took place opposite Tobias. Greg remained standing.

None of them talked until Sherlock returned, several files in hand.

"I have a feeling that can't be all – " John remarked.

"They aren't" Sherlock answered. "I took the more interesting ones, for the time being".

They were just about to get started – Sherlock having settled down next to John, while Greg had chosen the place to Tobias' right – when they heard the front door open. A moment later, Mycroft strolled into the room. His eyes ran over all of them and lingered on Sherlock slightly longer than necessary.

"The sniper was gone by the time the team got there" he stated.

"Expected them to be" Sherlock murmured while drawing the first file towards him.

"I have been told you saw the sniper and saved my brother".

Tobias looked up and met Mycroft's eyes.

"I did. It was luck, really. I just saw the reflection and reacted." He shrugged. "Nothing to talk about".

Mycroft's eyes narrowed, and Greg wondered if he was reassessing the hit man. The British Government didn't answer and strolled to the table, taking the head place.

"I see you have already taken the liberty of going through my library".

He was merely stating a fact, didn't sound the least bit annoyed, and it told Greg just how seriously he was taking the threat on his brother's and his life.

"I took the ones I consider the most likely candidates. Feel free to make suggestions".

John looked at Sherlock, somewhat worried that he hadn't sounded sarcastic. There hadn't been many times where the consulting detectives hadn't insulted his brother in some way.

Or where Mycroft had acquiesced to a request he'd made.

He looked calmly at the stack of files before uttering one name.

"Sir James Walter".

John frowned. Where had he –

"He's a Secretary of State" Sherlock explained. "He aspires to be the next Minister of Foreign Affairs".

"Which means he wants to be powerful" John mused. "Which means – "

"Having me out of the way might seem desirable" Mycroft finished.


	11. Bait

"That makes sense".

"It does?" John asked automatically, staring at Marshall.

The former hit man nodded.

"Politicians make up a large portion of the clients. Or targets, for that matter".

"I thought that was anonymous."

He could have sworn Marshall was resisting the urge to roll his eyes, and Sherlock's barely-hidden smirk of amusement he could see from the corner of his eye indicated that he was right.

"It's not that difficult to find out. You have to be careful. You can't just take any job".

"Of course you can't" John answered, somewhat harshly. He would never get used to hearing Marshall talk about killing people as a "job".

"Now that we have once more established that Mr. Marshall has experience in the business" Mycroft interrupted, sounding impatient, "might we get back to the problem at hand?"

"Have Anthea check – " Sherlock began, and John knew what he was going to say. Mycroft's trustworthy PA should look through Sir Walter's phone and mail contacts, as well as any others he might happen to have, hidden ones. As soon as they had proof, they could act and this nightmare would end. Hopefully. He couldn't keep Sherlock locked away for the rest of his life, but he also couldn't watch over him all the time.

John had seen many things; he had watched good men die. He had even watched Sherlock die. But if this time, he was prepared and it happened anyway – and it might, it would, with every hit man on the planet eager to get the money – he wouldn't be able to –

He could feel the strain already, and it hadn't even been twenty-four hours. He'd been a soldier, for God's sake. He needed to get a grip on himself.

"She already is" Mycroft said. He looked at his watch and frowned.

"I would have expected her to have found something by now".

This wasn't a good sign, just like Mycroft not having been able to find anything hadn't been a good sign. Anthea – or whatever she called herself now, somehow the name she had first introduced herself to John by had stuck – was experienced, she knew where to look, and she was loyal to a fault. As soon as she'd been told her employer was in danger, she would have started looking for clues as fast as she could.

"It is hardly surprising that she hasn't, if you weren't able to" Sherlock commented, but without anger or sarcasm, and Mycroft nodded.

John wasn't surprised that it took a threat to both of their lives and the possibility of the country slipping into chaos to make the brothers work together.

Greg seemed to think the same, judging by his small smile.

Sherlock sighed.

"Since it is possible we might not get any proof, we have to consider another approach. When would an attempt at your life most likely take place?"

"You are talking about using him as bait" Greg stated. He frowned.

"Of course. If we cannot prove that Sir Walter intends to kill him, we have to catch him in the act” Sherlock explained, voice and expression neutral.

“And, since there has been made an open offer on Sherlock’s head, but it appears to be my death that is the ultimate goal, it is only logical that I should be “the bait”, as you call it” Mycroft continued. “If Sherlock was to play the part, we would only achieve in arresting hit men”.

 _Or killing him,_ John thought, but didn’t say, because he had learned long ago that the Holmes always took every possibility into account. Being reminded of the risk wouldn’t change their mind. The doctor was glad that Sherlock wouldn’t be the bait. Regarding Mycroft –

John still couldn’t forget that the elder Holmes had told Moriarty his brother’s life story. He doubted he ever would. He had always believed that there existed some trust and companionship between them, despite their apparent hostility towards one another, and he couldn’t understand why Sherlock had forgiven Mycroft so easily. But forgiven him he had, and the doctor had convinced himself that he didn’t have any right to be angry. He had forgiven Sherlock for not telling him he was alive, he had no reason to criticize the consulting detective’s decision. And no matter what he did he would never succeed in comprehending their relationship.

Despite his reasoning, John was shaken by the realization that he was more than willing to watch Mycroft die, let Mycroft put himself in danger, if it meant Sherlock was safe. The British Government may be cold and out the country’s interest before his own family, but he was a man, and John shouldn’t happily accept the possibility of his death.

Only he did. Because Sherlock’s death was something he didn’t even dare thinking about.

“So?” he asked. “When?”

Mycroft looked at him, his face unreadable. A few moments passed before he answered, “Everyone who knows about my position is aware that breaking into my house is impossible”.

Sherlock snorted, and Mycroft shot him a glare that John would have called playful if it had come from anyone else.

“Unless they happen to have stolen a key, of course”.

Greg watched the scene before him with interest; he knew that all he could do was watch and try to keep them safe. He would never be able to dissuade them from their plan.

He was sure that Sherlock hadn’t stolen the key – not really; Mycroft would have had the locks exchanged if that was true, or rather, if he hadn’t _allowed_ his brother to steal it.

Sometimes, the DI thought he would never understand the relationship between these two.

Most of the time, he was sure he wouldn’t.

Tobias didn’t say much, in fact, since he had made the comment about the politician, he hadn’t said anything. For one simple reason: He didn’t think there was anything to say. It was clear that Sherlock and his brother – who was easily the poshest person he’d ever met – had come to a decision, and that they wouldn’t allow anyone to raise his voice against it.

And why should he? He had precious little to do with any of this. Although – maybe he did. He could have been satisfied with the warning he’d given Sherlock, and he hadn’t. Instead he was here. He had chosen to have to do with this.

Sherlock Holmes apparently made him choose all kinds of things. Things he would never have imagined choosing before he woke up in a locked room and a strange man brought him dinner.

And now here he was, listening to a discussion between said madman and his brother, about politicians and assassinations and bait.

At least he was more than acquainted with the subject, even if he wasn’t used to it having _meaning_.    

Not this kind of meaning, at least. Talks about killing – they had meant business. They had meant money. They had meant that he was doing what he was good at.

They hadn’t meant he might possible _lose_ something. Or someone.

How strange it was, that he was worried about losing Sherlock Holmes, when they had barely talked since he walked into his flat. They hadn’t even talked much before, when he’d told him everything he needed to know. But he was.

He wondered if there had been such a discussion n the other side of every job he had ever taken. According to Sherlock, he had killed fifty-four people. How many talks had taken place? How many worried friends had sat at how many tables and tried to save the target?

He suddenly realized why he had started a new life after he’d been set free.

Sherlock Holmes had made him think about others by making him think about this weird guy who had kidnapped him. He had been good at his job because he hadn’t thought about others.

Tobias still didn’t regret what he had done. He did however feel sorry for everyone he had killed. And he would never be able to pull another trigger on someone until it _mattered_.

It mattered now. That was all he knew. And it would have to be enough.

He waited for Mycroft to answer the question. They didn’t know if Sir Walter – or whoever wanted him dead – had any experience in killing (although it was likely that he had to have at least some knowledge on the matter, considering he was trying to kill the most powerful man in the country); they didn’t know if he planned to murder him in public or in private; but he had to know the elder Holmes’ schedule to even think about attempting to kill him. And Mycroft’s guess as to when this was most likely to occur was the best they were going to get.

“The conference” he finally said calmly.

“What conference?” Greg asked. “I didn’t hear anything about – “

“There is no need to confuse the public with the knowledge of conferences that actually mean anything” the British Government replied. “In this case, there are details of a defense treaty to discuss which you don’t really have to know about”.

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively in the air.

“I am sure we don’t. I assume Sir Walter is going to be there”.

“He is. There will be a lot of discussions and, naturally, with the number of diplomats that will attend, complete supervision is impossible”.  

Neither was it desirable, but his brother didn’t mention the fact, and Sherlock didn’t think it important. But, if Mycroft was murdered right in the middle of an important conference –

“Everything would have to be hushed up” he said, slowly. “The Secret Service would try to solve the case, but they wouldn’t be able to, not if the murderer was a powerful politician himself, who stepped into the void that was created. However – “

He stopped. There was no need to elaborate that he wouldn’t quite until he’d found the murderer of his brother. Everyone knew.

“Does Sir Walter have supporters?” the DI wanted to know.

“Obviously. He would hardly have been made Secretary of State if he hadn’t” Mycroft replied. “I never thought much of him”.

The silence was broken by Tobias.

“The murder is going to be committed at a conference. If Sir Walter wants to do it himself  and it seems that he does, I suppose not anyone can walk in there” he waited for Mycroft to nod before continuing, “he’s unlikely to use a gun or a knife. Guess they make sure you don’t bring weapons in”.

“Yes” Mycroft confirmed calmly.

“Poison is the best candidate, then. Quick and efficient, tasteless.”

“I do not take much nourishment during discussions of outmost importance” Mycroft said and Sherlock decided that now was not the time for a sarcastic remark.

“Everyone has to drink some time, though” Tobias replied with the air of an expert. “One sip. That’s all it takes. Just depends on the poison”.

They couldn’t argue with that.

Greg looked at Mycroft and tried to imagine what the country would do without him. Since, according to Sherlock and his own experience, the elder Holmes ran practically everything, it was difficult.

“When is the conference to take place?” Sherlock asked.

“Next Thursday”. Four days from now. John suppressed a sigh.

“Couldn’t you reschedule it?” he suggested. He didn’t have much hope that the British Government would listen to him, but he had to try.

Mycroft’ stare was enough to convince that he’d failed. Of course he wouldn’t reschedule an important conference only because his and his brother’s life was in danger.

No one had anything important to say after that, and they decided to eat something – or in Sherlock’s case, pick at his food, which John wasn’t surprised at, but still worried over – until they got a confirmation of Sir Walter’s guilt.

If they didn’t, they would have to wait four days.

None of them was looking forward to it. 


	12. No Safer Place

The hours dragged slowly by; there was little else to do but watch as the sun set and dusk settled over the city.

John sat in the dining room and looked out the window, but he didn't even notice that it was growing dark.

They still hadn't heard from Anthea.

Sherlock and Mycroft had gone into his file cabinet to look at other suspects; the British Government had informed them that "There was nothing they could do" and left them to their own devices.

Greg had immediately mumbled something about tea and started to search the kitchen; Marshall had declared he was "going over the parameters", in other words watching out for his former colleagues.

They hadn't left John with anything to do. He would be of no use hovering around the Holmes brothers, Greg had made it clear that he wanted some time alone, and he wasn't keen on Marshall's company.

It would be madness to try to kill them here, in the most secure house in the whole country. For now, there was nothing to be feared from the ex hit man.

John's right hand, the one that was lying on the table, clenched into a fist. For now. That didn't mean he trusted Marshall anymore than when he had entered their flat.

He wondered if they would stay here tonight; if so, he hoped the surveillance team on Mrs. Hudson was better than the ones that had allowed Carew and the sniper close.

He remembered that no one had called her after they had sped off, and he quickly did so.

"That was quite a commotion. They told me you boys were alright. Are you?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Everyone's fine."

"I was worried. You better remember calling me immediately next time something like this happens".

John didn't tell her that he hoped there wouldn't be a next time. At least not at the moment, and not with several hit men after Sherlock at one.

John was an adrenaline junkie, but he much preferred throwing himself at danger instead of the danger being thrown at him.

Greg took his time not only in finding the kitchen (he was sure Mycroft only lived here because it fit his status, not because he used the many rooms) but also in filling the kettle. He needed to be alone to wrap his head around all of this.

He knew that they needed to catch whoever was responsible, and as fast as possible. But he didn't like the idea of using anyone as bait. And that it was one of his friends – he considered Mycroft a friend, even if the British Government was adamant that he didn't wish for any human connections – made it worse.

Sir Walter, if it was indeed Sir Walter, had to be clever in order to avoid detection by Mycroft and his employees. And he would be in a room with the elder Holmes, ready to strike at any moment, and they couldn't be there…

Greg was neither surprised nor disappointed that Sherlock had accepted Mycroft's offer without trying to dissuade him. If he felt it was necessary, he had already gone through every other option and discarded them.

Sherlock must be worried. Regardless of the possibilities that using Mycroft as bait opened to them, he must be worried. Greg knew his consulting detective. He had seen the tension in his shoulders as he agreed with the British Government.

The DI sighed and took the kettle of the stove. Then he found cups and a tray and brought everything back to the dining room, where John was still sitting alone, apparently not having moved at all.

"They are still busy with the files?"

The doctor nodded.

"And – "

"Marshall is still "going over the parameters"" John said.

It was clear that John still didn't approve of them being on a first name basis. He'd seen his look when he'd taken place next to the ex hit man, and he was suspicious of Tobias' motives. Greg couldn't argue with him there – the suspicion was still lurking in the back of his mind as well – but he treated the other man as he felt he deserved to be treated after he'd saved Sherlock's life twice.

The tension hung in the air between them. It reminded him of different times, when there had been another subject they didn't talk about, when silence had become their preferred method of communication because talking hurt too much, and he took a gulp of his tea, endeavoring to find the right words.

John had every right to be suspicious. But Tobias had earned at least a little of their trust.

It would have been a difficult situation without Sherlock's life being threatened.

"Greg". He looked up.

John gave him a weak smile.

"Let's say, we know where the other stands, alright?"

Greg nodded and smiled back. He couldn't persuade John, not yet, but the tension had dissipated.

Tobias showed up a few minutes later.

"I do not think that any hit man is in the immediate vicinity" he announced before gladly accepting the cup of tea Greg was offering him.

John nodded and shot the DI a look, biting his lip.

Eventually, he said quietly, "Thank you".

Like the thanks he had uttered in the limousine, it was sincere, and the hit man accepted it just as matter-of-factly.

Tobias' eyes lingered on John Watson after he'd looked down in his cup again. Maybe the ex-soldier was finally coming around. Maybe not. As long as Sherlock was safe, he didn't care. It wasn't that he didn't like the doctor; he simply didn't need his good opinion. He had lived so long without that of his fellow men, he could live with a little mistrust.

He had observed the street and neighboring houses for half an hour and didn't think that any of his former colleagues were nearby. But he was certain that they could simply avoid being seen while he was here. He might have seen more if he had left the house, but he preferred staying in Sherlock's vicinity.

The consulting detective couldn't say whether Mycroft had made more enemies than him, despite his diplomatic skills. He had files on several Government employees, many diplomats, one or two business men and members of other professions. All of them were dangerous in their own way, may it be because of stupidity or ambition, and it was to be suspected that they had at least an idea of Mycroft's position.

His brother had been right; Sir Walter was the most likely suspect. Sherlock memorized the files of several others to be sure. They had to be prepared. Just in case.

They didn't talk much, aside from exchanging theories. They didn't need to. They knew what was at stake. Not only their lives, but – in Sherlock's case – that of his friends, and – in Mycroft's – the future of the country.

They only broached the subject once, and then they didn't mention the threats hanging over both their heads.

"Tobias Marshall" Mycroft began, "Do you think he is trustworthy?"

Sherlock paused because he didn't know how to answer. There were many things Tobias Marshall was, but he wasn't sure trustworthy was one of them. He had been a hit man. There was no reason why he should Sherlock.

And yet he trusted him.

Because they had talked, albeit briefly.

Because they had dined together.

He was aware that none of these reasons would satisfy his brother, so he was silent. Mycroft could draw his own conclusions.

When they entered the dining room, his friends were drinking tea and he was relieved that John's hostility towards Tobias – shown through silent resentment and suspicious looks– had somewhat abated.

"I will have you brought home" Mycroft announced, and John frowned.

"You don't – "

"If we stay, we make it obvious that we know what is going on" Sherlock explained. He had known even before they arrived that they wouldn't stay, that Mycroft wouldn't want them to stay. They needed to know who was behind this. Therefore, his big brother had to appear unconcerned. To not only openly invite Sherlock, but other people as well when it was known that one rarely had visitors would look suspicious.

John looked like he wanted to protest, and it was clear that Greg was worried too. Tobias understood their reasoning; he nodded and stood up.

They were in the entrance hall when Mycroft suddenly pulled Sherlock aside. It came so unexpected that he stumbled against his brother; he hadn't touched him voluntarily since they were children.

For a moment, Mycroft didn't say anything.

Then, slowly, quietly, so quietly that Sherlock wasn't sure the others had heard him, although they were standing right next to them, he murmured, "Take care of yourself".

Sherlock found it hard to answer, but somehow managed to press out just as quietly, "You too".

They left shortly after. He didn't turn around, and he knew Mycroft had immediately the door behind them.

No one said anything on the way back. Sherlock was grateful.


	13. Music And A Conversation

Mrs. Hudson rushed out of her flat when she heard the front door open. With a quick glance, she assured herself that all of them were unharmed, before demanding if they'd had dinner.

Sherlock left John to deal with their landlady and moved up the stairs.

He didn't expect anyone to follow him, not for a few minutes, at least. But as he was taking his coat off, he heard the door of the flat open and recognized the steps.

Tobias.

"Is your brother safe?"

It was asked calmly, and Sherlock appreciated that. John was his best friend because he showed his good heart whenever the need arose. Tobias was clear, calm, precise, and this very contrast to the doctor was a relief at such a stressful time.

"His house is the safest in England" he answered. "Even without a surveillance team."

"They haven't done a good job so far".

There was amusement in the ex hit man's voice, and Sherlock turned around.

He looked into his piercing blue eyes and remembered how often he had avoided them. When he'd held the man who had just saved his life twice capture. When he'd wondered if it wouldn't be better to kill him once he got the information he needed.

"No. They haven't" he confirmed.

Silence followed. Then, Sherlock slowly added, "Thank you".

It was their first private conversation since Tobias had appeared, and they hadn't talked much when they had met. They had eaten together, but they hadn't spoken.

And yet Sherlock had left the door open the next day. And now here they were.

He had often wondered about his last words to the hit man in his cell.

_Call me John._

It was obvious enough why he had unconsciously chosen the name – but why had he said anything in the first place? He could have just left.

He had wanted Tobias to remember. He had. He had, or he wouldn't be here.

And that, Sherlock realized, was why he trusted him when his friends didn't.

They remembered together. They remembered a situation that should never have come to pass, and even when it had – there were so many other ways it could have played out. Sherlock killing Tobias. Tobias attacking Sherlock. Tobias escaping. Sherlock leaving Tobias in a locked cell.

It was their choices that had brought them here, and because Tobias had chosen to warn him and look after him, Sherlock chose to trust him.

"You're welcome" Tobias answered. For the first time since he'd arrived, his voice trembled. "I – you're welcome". He paused before continuing, "This whole situation is messed up".

Sherlock couldn't argue with that.

Unexpectedly, Tobias laughed.

"I like messed up."

If Sherlock was correctly interpreting the ex hit man's use of "messed up", he would get more than enough of that while living with them. He smirked to tell Tobias that they liked "messed up" as well just as John's and Greg's steps were heard on the stairs.

Greg made it clear that he would only go down to sleep, the keys he was holding in his hand proof that Mrs. Hudson agreed. Sherlock raised no objection.

There wasn't anything they could do, and Sherlock could feel his mind beginning to rebel against the stagnation. He was sitting in his chair, his fingers drumming against his thigh, waiting for something, anything, a call, a visit –

"Will you play?"

Sherlock turned his head to look at Tobias, who was staring at the violin.

"I only heard you make these screeching noises" he said. "I'd like to hear you play."

John and Greg, who were both pretending to be reading, looked up; it wasn't something either of them would have suggested. They knew his moods too well.

Tobias, however, hadn't asked him to distract him. He had asked him because he wanted to hear him play.

Sherlock stood up and went to his bedroom to fetch his violin. When he returned his friends were waiting for him, his blogger and DI no longer bothering to pretend that they were engrossed in their books.

Sherlock played.

He only played his own compositions; some he'd written when he was young and alone; some he had composed to help John with his nightmares; many to soothe his own troubled mind –

And a few he had never played before, because they had been composed when his violin hadn't been available, when he had been dead, dismantling Moriarty's web, and one of his few comforts had been playing the violin in his mind.

One of them he had composed outside of the room he'd kept Tobias in.

John didn't recognize some of the melodies. Why it wasn't unusual for Sherlock to play a new tune, or to improvise, there almost always was a motif, certain notes in a row that John recognized. Now minutes would pass in which he wondered when the consulting detective had composed the tunes. He couldn't make them all up as he went along; the doctor was familiar with Sherlock's style and knew he had to have worked on them for some times.

Often, Sherlock used the violin to not only settle his thoughts, but also to deal with his emotions, and it wasn't difficult to recognize those behind the haunting melodies.

Loneliness. Sadness. Yearning.

John knew when he had composed them.

Had he chosen to play them because Marshall's presence reminded him of that time?

He shared a look with Greg, who was just as captivated by the music as he was.

They couldn't force Sherlock to talk. It might be that these melodies would be all they would ever hear about these three years, about what Sherlock had felt.

Tobias listened captivated. He had never cared much for music, but Sherlock was good. The melodies seemed to take on a life of their own, drifting through the flat, filling every space. He couldn't say when one piece began and another one ended.

Somewhere along the line, one made him think about a Christmas dinner between two strangers, one a captor, the other a captive, alone in a city of millions.

Eventually, Sherlock stopped. He gently put the violin down.

Tobias checked the time and realized that he'd been playing for three hours.

"We should try to get some rest".

At any other time, Greg would have been worried that Sherlock suggested they go to bed. He suspected it had more to do with a need to be alone than anything else, and so he simply told them goodnight and went downstairs.

Mrs. Hudson was still up. She offered him a glass of whiskey and he gladly accepted.

Sherlock mumbled something inaudible and disappeared into his bedroom.

John sighed. He consulting detective obviously wanted to spend the night alone in his room.

He would have preferred to keep an eye on him at all times, but he and Marshall were in the flat, Greg was downstairs, and Mycroft's hopefully more alert team was invisible on the street. Sherlock was as safe as he could be.

The doctor knew he wouldn't sleep much that night, if at all. He wondered if Marshall would just go to sleep. He had no doubt that the other man could be awake and alert in a moment, ready to strike.

John took the empty cups in the kitchen and returned to the living room. In a few words, he informed the hit man where the bath room was.

He should have gone to his room then, but he hesitated. There was no evidence that Marshall was dangerous or untrustworthy, but he would sleep on the sofa, and Sherlock was in his room.

If he decided to –

John wouldn't be quick enough.

He wondered if it had been a good idea to let Greg stay with Mrs. Hudson. John would gladly have slept on the floor if it secured Sherlock's safety.

"I am not going to kill Sherlock."

John looked at the hit man who was still sitting on the sofa, in the exact same position he had been when the doctor had went to the kitchen.

"You realize this is what – "

"I know. But why would I kill Sherlock?"

"For money".

Marshall eyed him. There was an expression on his face John couldn't read.

"So did you."

Unexpected anger, hot and fierce, cursed through him.

"I was a soldier."

"Exactly. You went where people told you to go and you killed there. And you received money for it. As far as I see, the only difference between you and me is that you are allowed to feel good for the people you killed."

John swallowed. "You feel guilty, then?"

"Do you?"

The doctor stared at the hit man. How could he not see that being a soldier, taking lives in order to save others, was different from making money by killing anyone one was paid to?

"Regardless of how you feel about my presence – I'm here to protect Sherlock. I could have killed him any time. I didn't. Take that as proof".

And with that, Marshall stood up and disappeared into the bathroom.

As uncomfortable as he was to have him sleep on the sofa, John had to admit that he believed him. If only because there was no reason he should wait. He could have killed him when he entered the flat.

Exhausted and worried, the doctor withdrew for the night.


	14. A Night With A Friend

"Are they alright?"

Mrs. Hudson's question over their second glass of whiskey didn't surprise Greg. She knew Sherlock and John; she would have realized the tension in the room.

He sighed.

"For the moment, yes. But if this goes on any longer –"

"Is it about the young man staying?"

He couldn't lie to her, not when she was looking at him like this. Not when she was so obviously worried about her boys.

"John is concerned" he replied. "Tobias – Sherlock knows him, but he doesn't. He doesn't trust him."

"And you do?"

"I don't mistrust him" the DI said slowly. He didn't trust Tobias, not unconditionally, because he couldn't. Sherlock's trust was enough that he didn't consider the ex hit man a threat until proven otherwise. And he couldn't deny that he liked him. He had saved Sherlock. More than once.

He wasn't sure if he should tell Mrs. Hudson more. While she continued to surprise him – she was certainly holding up far better than could have been expected, then again, she was Sherlock Holmes' landlady – he didn't think she would appreciate the presence of a hit man under her roof.

"Well, Sherlock seemed happy to see him" she replied, sensing his reluctance, "and he can stay as long as he wants. That goes for you too, of course".

She patted his hand and winked at him and he decided that he should go to bed before Mrs. Hudson had another glass.

John didn't manage to fall asleep for a long time. Sherlock wouldn't appreciate him hovering, and him sending John to bed was his way of caring for the doctor. But he was in danger, and John couldn't protect him like he wished he could. They had already almost got to him twice. Mycroft couldn't find proof against Sir Walter.

John Watson felt trapped. And he couldn't find a way out.

This night, Sherlock didn't play him to sleep; John told himself he should be glad that he was being considerate of their guest, but he couldn't bring himself to be as he finally drifted off into a fitful sleep.

Tobias didn't go to sleep. He heard John move around for a while; then all was quiet.

He could tell Sherlock was awake; after years of waiting for the right moment, of observing targets, he had learned how a flat or a house felt when everyone was asleep, and this one didn't. The consulting detective was probably lost in his thoughts again, trusting his friends to keep him safe.

His friends and Tobias. He didn't think anyone would consider him a friend.

But before he had been kidnapped, he hadn't thought anyone would eat Christmas dinner with him either.

And now he sat here, waiting for dawn, waiting for anything to happen, waiting for Sherlock and his brother to solve the case.

He wondered what exactly Sherlock was thinking about. He wondered what his brother was doing. He hadn't seen much of Mycroft Holmes, but was ready to bet that he wasn't sleeping either.

He was used to waiting. He had done it often enough, on nights much longer than this. He had waited and felt the gun in his hand, his finger on the trigger; he had waited and planned every step carefully in his mind; he had waited until finally a door opened or a silhouette appeared at a window or someone came to the place he'd known he would.

But this wait – it felt different. It felt different, because –

In his other jobs, when he failed, he could try again or walk away and forget about it. Not here.

He was so tuned to detect every little movement in the flat that he knew immediately that Sherlock was going to walk into the living room.

He didn't comment on Tobias staying up. He didn't say anything. He simply went into the kitchen and came back a little while later with two cups of tea.

Tobias accepted it automatically. It tasted different from John's, but still good.

The ex hit man didn't bother to ask if Sherlock had received new information. If he had, he would have told him right away. And Tobias would have known. He would have realized the air change, the new electric current passing through the flat, the excitement.

"You didn't tell them that I kidnapped you".

Sherlock said it calmly, without any emotion, and Tobias shrugged.

"I wasn't sure you'd want them to know".

Sherlock didn't. He didn't want them to know anything he'd done in these three years. He had done things that were buried deep in his mind palace; and, although he didn't want to admit it to himself, he was afraid that they would look at him differently.

He didn't even know why he had left his room. He didn't know why he was talking to Tobias. He only knew that it had all become too much, the memories, the worry about his friends' safety, the days that would pass before they were sure it was Sir Walter.

"Why did you come?"

He hadn't meant to ask it. He had been wondering about it since the ex hit man sat foot in the flat. He couldn't explain it, not logically, not unless Tobias was after the money and planned to kill him, and there was no reason to suspect so.

Which only left sentiment as an explanation.

But why would a man he had held captive feel an obligation to help him?

When Tobias heard the question, he knew he had been dreading it. Dreading it for the simple reason that he didn't know himself.

He told him the truth.

"I don't know. I just – I got the information and all I could think about was that you were in danger."

Sherlock stared at him; it was the same piercing look he had given him so often in the weeks when he'd been his captive, and Tobias thought how similar this was to the dinner they had shared.

Similar and yet different.

They hadn't talked, then. They had kept each other company, but they hadn't talked.

But it was dark, and they were alone, surrounded by people.

"How did you find out?" Sherlock demanded. Tobias didn't need him to elaborate. The consulting detective wanted to know how he'd figured out that it had been him who'd kidnapped him. And if he wasn't imaging it, he sounded impressed.

"I saw you on the news. When you returned. They way you moved – I knew right away". He paused. Then, he added, in a lighter tone, "I googled you".

Something like a smile passed across Sherlock's face.

"You wouldn't be the first friend of mine".

Tobias stilled at the word. _Friend._

Until now, he'd avoided labelling what it was he shared with Sherlock Holmes. The strange connection that had compelled him to fly to England, to protect him...

It might be friendship. He wouldn't know.

He could see that Sherlock was surprised at his own choice of words. But he didn't take it back.

Tobias didn't say anything to refute it either.

He wondered if he should tell Sherlock that he'd quit because of him, even if he couldn't understand why, but he had a feeling the consulting detective already knew.

"You don't sleep much, do you" he said instead.

"I have never seen the point".

He sounded slightly defensive, as if he had had this discussion with others, and Tobias replied, "I don't either. Of course, with my job, I didn't get much sleep when I was working. I just got used to it. Even now, I don't – I don't need it".

He had always loved the night; loved walking around the city during the hours were only a few people, and sometimes none at all, were around. He hoped that, once they had dealt with the situation, he could take a walk around London before returning home.

He didn't say any of this, but he believed that Sherlock understood him. They didn't need many words to understand one another.

Suddenly he laughed, and it sounded so happy and carefree, so completely different from the hollow laughter he'd known, that it astounded him.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"It's just – we're crazy, you know? A hit man and the guy who kidnapped him, drinking tea in the middle of the night and trying to save the country".

"Since I believe it is the consensus among the "normal" people of my acquaintance that anyone who is friends with me must be insane, I fail to see how this is of significance."

Tobias laughed again, and this time, Sherlock joined him.

It was a moment of lightness they'd both needed.

He wondered if John Watson would have appreciated it too, if he had allowed himself to trust Tobias. He suspected Greg would have. And yet, he was selfishly glad it was just the two of them.

He and his – friend.

The two of them, laughing in the night, enjoying the brief moment of peace.

They didn't talk much after that, simply sipped their tea in companionable silence, and when Sherlock eventually returned to his bedroom because "he should at least try to get some rest", it was with a small smile.

He decided it was good advice and lay down on the sofa to get some sleep himself.

John woke up at dawn and knew he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep.

He tiptoed down the stairs – perhaps it was too much to hope, but Sherlock might for once have got some rest himself – and found the ex hit man fast asleep on the sofa.

He stood in the door and wondered if he ever dreamed about his former life, like John had dreamed about Afghanistan when he'd been invalided home.

He doubted it. Tobias Marshall didn't seem the kind of man to be haunted by anything – may it be regret or guilt.

He made coffee – during the last twenty-four hours, he had drunk a lot of tea, even for him – and when he turned around, Marshall was standing in the kitchen doorway.

John didn't let him see that he was startled and simply said, "Good morning. Did I wake you?"

"I woke up as soon as there was movement in the flat" the ex hit man stated before pouring himself a cup of coffee.

Until now, he had never filled a cup on his own, always waiting for someone to offer it to him, and John wondered why he did so this morning.

"Sherlock is still asleep" Marshall informed him.

This was more than John could have hoped for, and he couldn't help but sigh relieved.

They stayed in the kitchen while they drank their coffee, and the doctor found that he was getting used to Marshall's silent companionship. In a way, it was easy to be around him. Others would have felt the need to fill the silence, but he simply let it be and allowed John to follow his own thoughts.

If things were different, he would probably appreciate it more.

Sherlock walked into the kitchen just as he had finished his first cup; his eyes went from John to Marshall, and the doctor concluded he was probably deducing that he was not feeling as hostile towards the ex hit man as he had before.

The consulting detective took the cup John offered him.

"Greg is still sleeping?" he asked. John shrugged.

"I don't know, but Mrs. Hudson is probably stuffing him with breakfast".

"That's not true" the DI said as he came in from the living room, having let himself in the flat just in time to hear John's comment. It had been true half an hour ago, but he didn't mention it. Sherlock didn't either, although he certainly knew.

Another day of waiting began.


	15. House Call

Mrs. Hudson came up about ten am, just as Sherlock was contemplating shooting the wall to relieve the feeling that he was trapped. She didn't bring tea – having rightly predicted that John had eventually made some, after they'd finished the coffee – and was obviously checking on them without being at all subtle about it.

She frowned as she saw how tense they all were; Sherlock was curled up in his chair, occasionally mumbling to himself, Greg had a haunted look on his face and John appeared to be ready to attack anyone who came through the door. The young man who had shown up the previous day seemed to be the most relaxed, but she had seen a few things in her life and noticed how his gaze would continually sweep through the flat, making sure that everything was secure.

Sherlock was in no mood to talk, although he forced himself to greet his landlady politely, John was too preoccupied with making sure he didn't let the consulting detective out of his sight, and she and Greg had had breakfast together, so it was no surprise that she decided to converse with Tobias.

The ex hit man smiled at Sherlock's landlady when she sat down next to him, a determined expression on his face. They hadn't exchanged more than a few words when he'd asked her if Sherlock was there and if he could go up.

"Do you have anything you need?" she asked. "Sherlock can be a little negligent when it comes to hospitality".

Greg chuckled.

"And I, Mrs. Hudson?"

"John, we both know you are a perfect gentleman. Regardless, it's not easy to live with Sherlock."

Her tone was playful, and even the consulting detective seemed to relax a little bit.

"Actually, I have found it remarkable easy" Tobias replied. It was true. Sherlock was different, but so was he. The screeching noises hadn't bothered him much. And when it came to the chemistry equipment and the body parts in the kitchen – he'd seen worse.

"Oh? That's nice, dear. So, how did you two meet?"

She looked from him to Sherlock with shrewd eyes, and Tobias realized she'd been meaning to ask that question from the beginning. For the first time in years, he had underestimated someone.

Sherlock hadn't answered him last night when he'd stated that the consulting detective didn't want his friends to know the circumstances of their meeting. Tobias decided that it wasn't his story to tell. These were Sherlock's friends. If he wanted them to know, he would tell them.

"I helped him out on a case".

It wasn't a lie. And Mrs. Hudson didn't pry, just beamed and patted his hand, as if knowing he'd helped Sherlock was enough for her to trust him, and maybe it was. After all, this was her flat, and she could have thrown him out if she chose to, but she hadn't.

She started making small talk, asking him about his job, and he happily explained to her that he was a bartender. He didn't mention that it had been the only job he'd been sure he could do, aside from killing people. And he enjoyed it. Somehow, after living in silence for so long, it felt good to hearing people complain about their problems to him, even if they didn't know his name.

Mrs. Hudson then started questioning him about Florida, and he learned that she had lived there for years and only returned after the death of her husband – and it was then that he remembered why her name had seemed familiar.

Her husband had made quite a name for himself before Tobias time. He didn't really remember what had happened to Mr. Hudson, but he had a feeling that it hadn't been pleasant.

He saw Sherlock smile from the corner of his eye and listened to their landlady's story about her life in Florida without comment.

Sherlock's phone started ringing; the consulting detective immediately went to his bedroom to answer it. Tobias saw John's hand twitch as the doctor internally debated if he should follow his friend before deciding against it.

He came back almost immediately, his face unreadable. He didn't say anything but quickly donned on his coat; the others followed, while Mrs. Hudson went back to her flat with a gentle "Take care."

"We are expected at Sir James Walter's" Sherlock explained as soon as they were sitting in the limousine Mycroft had sent for them.

"Why?" John asked.

"I don't know" was the court reply, but Tobias was sure that he had a theory. When he looked away from his friend, his gaze met Greg's. The DI obviously thought the same.

Sherlock kept looking out of the window, more out of a desire to avoid looking at his friends than because he admired the scenery.

Something wasn't right. Mycroft had only informed him that they were to go to Sir James Walter's mansion and that a limousine was waiting for them. His voice had been flat.

Whatever had happened, it wasn't good. Sherlock never theorized without data, but this was putting his life-long habit to a severe test.

Sherlock hadn't spoken more than five words to him this morning. John looked down at his lap and saw that his left hand was shaking again, the tremor indicating just how much this troubled him.

The consulting detective had always had his silent phases –sometimes he wouldn't talk for days – but this was different. They were in the middle of the case, and his life was in danger.

They would have to talk, even if this visit didn't bring an end to this nightmare.

There were no people on the street; in fact, without another one of Mycroft's limousines parked in front, John wouldn't have been sure they had found the right house.

Despite the lack of police or anything suspicious, Sherlock was more worried than ever as he left the limousine, leaving the others to follow.

His fears were confirmed when Mycroft opened the door personally.

"Sir James Walter has committed suicide."


	16. Dead End

For a brief moment, John felt a surge of relief. If Sir James Walter was dead, that meant that no one could pay the hit men, and no one was targeting the British Government. Then he saw Mycroft's expression. Graver than ever, and – yes, he looked concerned. And if Mycroft Holmes showed that he was –

This wasn't over.

Sherlock swept past his brother without another word; the others followed, Marshall at the end, as usual, John realized. The ex hit man always made sure that they were safe before worrying about himself.

He bit his lip as he passed Mycroft, deciding that he really should try to be more polite to Marshall.

The man lay in his office. Sherlock knelt down and studied the body. He was fully dressed. A gunshot wound on his right temple and a gun near his right hand made the cause of death easy to determine; John could tell that he must have shot himself sitting at his enormous desk, where every paper seemed to be arranged in a precise order.

The consulting detective took out his magnifying glass and looked over the body, before moving towards the desk.

"Did he leave a note?"

Mycroft shook his head.

"He was found this morning by his driver, who had come to pick him up; he was surprised when Sir Walter didn't open the door to greet him, as was his custom, but it had happened a few times in the past, so he let himself in with his key. Nothing appeared to be out of order. When he entered the office and saw Sir Walter lying dead, he immediately turned around and called the Ministry. He didn't touch anything."

"He didn't call the police?" John inquired, and Mycroft shot him a look that clearly meant that he should know better by now than to expect that the truly important cases were to be handled by the official police force.

"Good to know" Greg mumbled, and the doctor could have sworn that there was a glitter of amusement in Mycroft's eyes. "May I be so bold to take a look, now that I'm here?" The British Government nodded and the DI went to look over the desk; at the same time, John chose to move himself. He might not be able to tell Sherlock much, but the consulting detective appreciated it when he told him the cause of death regardless of how obvious it might be.

There was residue burned into the skin around the wound, indicating that the shot had been fired from a close range; the distance between the man's hand and the gun looked about right for a suicide, but of course, it could have been staged –

"Tobias?" John used the man's first name for the first time, "I would say that this was suicide. What do you think?"

When the ex hit man kneeled down next to him, he didn't even bother to hide his surprise. He quickly looked at the gun and the wound.

"Looks legit" he finally said. "Of course, anyone can lie down a gun next to a body. But even if there was someone else here – he didn't leave any evidence."

"How do you know?" John inquired. "There could be – "

"Sherlock hasn't said anything".

If there was anything John had ever thought he would never share with a hit man, it was this, the complete, unwavering trust in Sherlock Holmes and his abilities. In fact, while he had been giving his best friend more time, he had already considered suicide likely simply because he hadn't said anything yet.

He smiled, a genuine smile, and Tobias answered with one of his own.

He could have said much, but instead he said, "Call me John". The other man nodded.

"No note, as Mycroft said" Greg stated, "but all his papers are in order. His Last Will right in the centre of the table – I'd say we're definitely dealing with suicide."

John stood up and looked at the British Government.

"Why did you think he did it? Were you getting close to him?"

It would have been the answer to all their prayers. The man who'd targeted both Holmes dead because he hadn't been able to withstand the pressure –

Mycroft's expression told him once more that this wasn't what had happened, though.

"Anthea is keeping me informed of the developments, but so far there haven't been any. We never "got close" to Sir James Walter. He wouldn't even have known that we were investigating him".

"Great. So now we have a strange suicide too" Greg said, letting the paper he'd been examining fall back on the desk, much to Sherlock's annoyance, who had been busy going through a file he'd found in a drawer.

"I wouldn't call it strange" he drawled. "Mycroft, there has been a leak in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and you haven't told me? I am disappointed".

His brother raised an eyebrow. "In the last few months, there have been indeed some unfortunate incidents concerning classified information which foreign diplomats held in their possession – Sir Walter?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Of course not". John knew that he used the words "Of course" because he was convinced his brother would have noticed that a Secretary of State was selling official secrets.

"His brother."

Mycroft frowned. "Valentine Walter? He never appeared to be interested in his brother's work. There was no indication that he knew any foreign agents or stood in contact with any embassy."

"He was here quite a lot, however, the brothers were close" Sherlock remarked sarcastically, "and apparently it wasn't that difficult for him to find the right people once he had the information. It seems that Sir James Walter found out and drew the consequences."

He put the file down.

"Now, Mycroft, I suggest we find another suspect. I still believe that the conference is the most likely place for the attempted murder – quite a few politicians who were in your file cabinet will attend, I gather".

"But most of them are not dangerous – not particularly" Mycroft argued and John heard the unspoken _At least not to me._

Sherlock didn't answer. When John looked at his friend, he was surprised to find him actually looking angry.

The strain was taking its toll. Sherlock's life, he knew, mattered precious little to him when it came to cases. But his brother and his friends were in danger too.

He didn't even have to with his opposition. Mycroft wisely chose not to argue, but simply said, "I will go through the files and meet you at 221B as soon as possible".

Sherlock nodded and swept past him.

Tobias quickly caught up.

"You shouldn't leave the house first" he said. "Let me".

Sherlock looked like he wanted to protest, but finally he let the ex hit man pass.

They made it back to the cab and Baker Street without incident. Once they were safely inside the house, John drew Greg aside. His gaze went from him to Sherlock, and the DI understood immediately.

"Tobias, why don't we have tea with Mrs. Hudson?"

The other man looked at John, realized what he wanted and quickly followed Greg.

Sherlock hadn't seen their silent exchange; as soon as they had set foot in the house, he had run up and slammed the door of the flat behind him. Mrs. Hudson hadn't even bothered to look what was going on, and John truly realized how tense his friend must have been this morning if their landlady simply accepted him slamming their door like this.

Guilt that he hadn't tried to make Sherlock feel better washed through him. He had been concentrating on keeping the consulting detective alive, but that was no excuse. He had to make sure his best friend was alright. It was his job.

He found Sherlock lying on the sofa, his eyes closed.

John cleared his throat.

"So I guess James Walter isn't our man."

"He doesn't appear to be" Sherlock replied flatly.

"What about his brother?"

"He's a spy, not a murderer. He has no reason to get rid of Mycroft".

John nodded, although the consulting detective couldn't see him, and sat down on his chair.

"So we wait for the conference?"

"Yes" Sherlock said slowly, "we wait".

John waited. After a few moments, the consulting detective sprang up and started pacing. "It's another three days until the conference. Three days in which – anything could happen".

The doctor looked at him and saw how scared he was. Not for himself; for his friends, for his brother.

"Sherlock. We will not let it come to that".

"You can't be sure."

"Yes, I can. Because you are Sherlock Holmes, and we don't let things like this happen".

Sherlock smiled. John smiled back.

The consulting detective cleared his throat.

"You have been wondering how Tobias and I met".

"Yes, but you don't have to tell me – " John quickly began, because he didn't want Sherlock to feel obligated to tell him. If he chose to do so, he was glad to hear it. If not – he had no right to demand that his friend share all his secrets with him. They trusted each other, and it was enough.

"I know. But you obviously wish to be acquainted with the circumstances of our meeting, and there is no reason I shouldn't tell you. In fact, I was under the impression that that was what friends did – tell each other such things".

John grinned because it was typical Sherlock, but he could see that he indeed wanted to tell him, so he said nothing and waited.

"I kidnapped him. He was targeting someone who had some information I needed."

John blinked, slowly. He hadn't expected this.

"You kidnapped him? But then why – " He didn't know what he wanted to say. _Why did he warn you? Why is he here? Why do you trust him?_

"He gave me some information on the Tornton family, an important part of Moriarty's web, of his own free will, and – I brought him Christmas dinner" Sherlock admitted, somewhat sheepishly.

John stared. So they had become friends because Sherlock had brought his captive dinner on Christmas?

"I know it doesn't make sense" Sherlock continued, letting his frustration at not comprehending the strange understanding between him and Tobias Marshall seep through. There was no reason they should be friends. But, somehow, they understood one another, somehow, they liked one another, somehow –

He abandoned the train of thought when he looked at John and realized that it didn't matter, because thinking of the doctor and Greg, apparently all his close friendship were a product of the same strange understanding. Minus the kidnapping, at least from Sherlock's side.

"Of course he couldn't just help you out like a normal person" John teased, and Sherlock smiled. "I can't say I'm ungrateful that you kidnapped him, though" he added more seriously and Sherlock swallowed as he thought that without the ex hit man's warning, one or more of his friends might already be dead, not to mention him or Mycroft.

"Me too" he replied simply. John stood up.

"Now that that's cleared up, I guess I should tell Greg and Tobias that they can come up again".

Before he left the flat, he quickly went up to Sherlock and squeezed his shoulder.

Sherlock smiled gratefully.

They both heard a car drive up.

"Mycroft really did hurry" he drawled. As he made to follow John, the doctor turned around.

"Sherlock – "

"I hardly think an assassin is waiting on the staircase".

He couldn't say anything against that, and they left the flat together.

They were met by Mycroft, Greg and Tobias on the stairs; obviously the other two had been waiting for the car to arrive as well and had opened the door.

Looking around in the living room and finding that both Holmes looked grave, which meant Mycroft hadn't found anything, John decided to put the kettle on once more.

They would need it.


	17. Night Surprise

"Nothing?"

Sherlock sounded incredulous, and Mycroft couldn't blame him. He was frustrated himself, frustrated enough that he had taken it out on Anthea when she had called. He was rarely impolite, but this time he had been, and the fact that his employee had not only sounded completely unfazed, but sympathetic as well, told him that he wasn't hiding his feelings as well as he usually did.

There were simply too many factors in this case.

The threat on his life he could handle, and while Sherlock was his weak point, he was not as stupid as the rest of humanity. He was reckless, true, but Mycroft could reasonably hope that he would be able to keep himself alive for a few days.

But, with the habit his brother had acquired of making friends, things got more complicated. Sherlock – and therefore Mycroft too – was far more vulnerable than he'd been when he was isolated. He could easily be distracted by his fear for the safety of the little group that had assembled to protect him.

Mycroft was still unsure whether the arrival of Tobias Marshall was an advantage. On the one hand, it meant that they had to look out for someone else; that the chance that one of them was going to get hurt was even higher. On the other, he had been a hit man, and one of the best – Mycroft was familiar with his name, although he hadn't known that he and his little brother were acquainted. He had saved Sherlock's life on two occasions; he had warned him. Considering everything, it was good that he had arrived, even if made the consulting detective even more vulnerable.

He knew of course why Sherlock was angry; not only did he have nothing new to tell him, but he had come when it was unnecessary to do so.

He would freely admit it had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with sentiment. Sherlock was his weak spot, and it was more than likely that the murderer, or soon to be murderer, knew this. And the threat on Sherlock's life distracted him as well. Still, he had to see that his brother was alright with his own eyes. The years of separation, when he couldn't just turn on a monitor and watch him, might have something to do with it. But for whatever reason – here he was. And he knew that Sherlock knew it too.

He couldn't stay; if he stayed, it would become obvious that he not only feared for his brother's safety, but that the others were protecting him as well. While he could count on Sherlock's acting ability, John Watson and DI Lestrade were not nearly as subtle. There would be a few signs – them pushing him towards the nearest dark corner, not allowing him to look out the window – that someone who was after them, who was most likely watching them, couldn't fail to notice. So he quickly bade them all goodbye and left.

Unexpectedly, the DI offered to accompany him to the limousine, "just in case", and he pretended he didn't see the grateful look his brother showed the man. The precaution was unnecessary. Whoever was planning on killing him obviously had a big enough ego to wish to do it himself – sadly, he also cared for his safety, which was why Sherlock and his friends were in danger to begin with.

"Do you have security at your house?"

The question was not only so unexpected, but so unnecessary that Mycroft didn't answer.

"I didn't mean if you have _any_ security at your house" the DI sighed. "I meant if you have asked for additional – "

"No".

The DI's silence told Mycroft that he had been anticipating the answer; it wasn't a stunned silence – he was collecting his thoughts.

"I assume this is because – "

"Because I do not want whoever is responsible to grow suspicious."

"I do understand your reasoning, but – "

Mycroft shook his head to show that any opposition was useless. The DI hung his head.

"Fine. Just – Try not to die, alright?"

Mycroft assumed he said so because his death would hurt Sherlock, but when he looked in the other man's face, he realized that he truly didn't want him to die.

He suddenly had the strange feeling that along the way, he may have found someone who considered him a friend as well.

It was disconcerting, simply because he had never had to deal with this kind of situation before. While he possessed more diplomatic tact than Sherlock, he had always kept his distance.

"I will" he eventually said before leaving without another word.

Greg watched him go before slowly ascending the stairs.

He really wished the Holmes would stop to think that they meant something to other people every time they put themselves in danger. He and Mycroft might not be friends, but he was Sherlock's brother and they had known each other for years.

He didn't talk about their conversation when he entered the flat, but he had a feeling Sherlock knew.

The second day of waiting passed somehow.

They didn't really talk; they didn't really do much of – anything, to be honest. Sherlock sat slumped in his chair, listlessly, and John tried to get him to eat, but to no avail. At least Greg and Marshall decided to take some nourishment, and the doctor forced himself to pick on his plate as well.

The consulting detective barely left the chair until it was time to go to bed, but he reciprocated John's gesture on the way to his bedroom and quickly squeezed his shoulder. John smiled. They were alright. For the time being.

Greg and left them shortly afterwards,Tobais lay down on the sofa, and Sherlock was once more left in his room, waiting for something to happen that might not, or prove disastrous when it did.

He was glad Greg had talked to Mycroft about his own safety – it was a discussion he wouldn't have known how to begin, and the DI was a man most people found it difficult to be angry at. HE hadn't seemed happy when he'd returned, but he hadn't looked hopeless either, so Mycroft was watching out for himself, and Sherlock hadn't known how much he needed this affirmation until he'd had it.

It was in the middle of the night, as he was categorizing his mind palace, hoping to find some peace, when he suddenly knew.

Something wasn't right. Sherlock had spent many sleepless nights in this house. He knew how it felt, knew how it sounded. This –

There was a stir in the air, undetectable for someone who hadn't lived in these walls. But Sherlock had, and he could hear the slight disturbance of the silence of the night.

He went into the living room without turning the lights on. Tobias awoke in an instant, but could tell it was him and let him understand, by pulling his hand down, that he would wait while he got John.

Silently he climbed up the stairs and woke John up by putting a hand over his mouth. The doctor shot up, trying to grab the gun he had put under his pillow before he went to sleep, but Sherlock quickly put his other hand on his shoulder and hissed, "Stop".

John relaxed and stayed where he was, Sherlock's mouth on his hand, not even trying to free himself. He knew something must have happened.

"Someone is in the house" the consulting detective added in the same whisper.

John nodded to show that he understood and he let go of him. The doctor took his gun, then noiselessly opened a drawer of his bedside table and handed Sherlock another one. Since the consulting detective made a habit of sneaking his gun when he was bored or felt he needed it, he had started early on to keep a second one.

They started to make their way downstairs; Sherlock quickly pointed to the flat's door to indicate that the intruder hadn't entered yet and was only in the house –

A shot rang out. They knew immediately that it came from Mrs. Hudson's flat.


	18. Fight

It was useless trying to sneak downstairs now. They darted off.

Tobias was waiting for them at the top of the stairs, gun in hand. As soon as they saw him, he started running towards Mrs. Hudson's flat.

All possible scenarios flashed through John's mind in an instant. There had only been a shot, no call, no scream; if one of them was injured, he'd never forgive himself. It would have been possible to fit all of them in the flat, Mrs. Hudson included, he would gladly have slept on the floor –

He concentrated on the task at hand. Whoever was in the flat knew they had heard the shot. There was no way they couldn't have. Surprising the intruder was out of the question.

When they had all reached their landlady's door – Tobias having waited because he felt it would be better to go in all at once – Sherlock looked back at him; when he nodded, he gestured towards the ex hit man, who flung the door open.

It was dark, but the light from a street lantern fell through the window. They were able to make out the furniture of the living room.

It all looked peaceful – John nudged Sherlock with his elbow and shrugged his shoulders, indicating that he wasn't sure if he should move or call out. The consulting detective started moving, so he followed him, the ex hit man close behind.

Sherlock thought quickly. A shot had been fired. Whether Greg had been trying to defend himself or – whether he had been killed (he had to force himself to consider the possibility; now was not the time for sentiment) the shot was most likely to have come from the guest bedroom. Then again, maybe it had been Mrs. Hudson's room –

If they had to decide –

Mrs. Hudson hadn't screamed. It was logical to assume that she was already dead. They might both be; maybe whoever was in the house hadn't used his gun to kill one of them, but a knife in the hope of not being discovered, and when the other, Greg or Mrs. Hudson, woke up, he had been forced to fire –

No. He was going to assume they were still alive.

He turned around and motioned that they better split up; Tobias nodded while John immediately moved to stand beside him. He hadn't expected anything different. He indicated where the guest bedroom was so that Tobias could check on Greg while he and John swiftly made their way to Mrs. Hudson's room.

Sherlock grabbed John before he could barge in. Something wasn't right. The intruder was not likely to leave after he had been noticed; He would have foreseen that they would come down, therefore being able to surprise them from behind and after all he had the chance to earn a lot of money –

There was every chance he was ready to strike the moment they ran in the room.

John relaxed as he understood Sherlock's meaning, as the consulting detective had known he would once he had thought about it for a moment. Until he did, Sherlock didn't let go of his arm. He couldn't risk John running into a situation he couldn't handle.

If Greg and Mrs. Hudson were already –

He couldn't lose everyone.

When he realized John was no longer trying to get away as fast as possible, he drew him closer and whispered in his ear.

"Slowly; push the door open. Don't enter".

Since they were so close, he felt rather than saw John nod before they took post at either side of the door.

John pushed.

Slowly, very slowly, it opened. There was no sound – almost.

Sherlock could hear heavy breathing, too heavy for it to be Mrs. Hudson, and his heart sank.

Until he heard it. Soft, gently breathing. Someone was crying in this room. Or rather, someone was trying to convince the person who held him hostage that she was crying.

Relief flooded through him. Mrs. Hudson was alive.

It would have been better if he hadn't realized that this might mean that Greg was dead at the very same moment.

Somehow, he managed to capture John's attention in the weak light and waved his hand pointing inside before pointing towards his heart.

They have been in enough situations like this together to have developed their own method of communication, and he knew John would comprehend that he was telling him Mrs. Hudson was still alive.

He listened, but there was no indication that whoever was with her was moving. He was certain that John wouldn't let him go first, even if he tried, and so he jerked his thumb into the direction of the door.

The doctor understood immediately and started moving.

Sherlock followed close behind. There was no point in waiting. He was reasonably sure that there was only one person in the room beside Mrs. Hudson, and he couldn't shoot them both at once. And he wouldn't allow John Watson to die for him.

A thought shot through him, and he pushed John forward, causing him to lose his balance and fall down; a second later, a shot exploded next to them and a bullet rushed past so closely that Sherlock could feel the air current. It buried itself in the wall, and Sherlock took a punch in the direction it had come from. He wouldn't risk harming Mrs. Hudson.

He missed the intruder, but struck the gun, and it fell to the floor as another bullet was loosened but went into the very same wall the first one had struck.

In the next moment, he was tackled. The intruder appeared to be male and of medium seize, but he was strong, and Sherlock and him dropped down on the floor, their limbs entangled; with relief, Sherlock noticed that John must have succeeded in crawling away.

He tried to throw a few punches and hit him a few times, but he didn't manage to free himself from his grasp, and then the man's arms were around his neck.

Sherlock tried to grasp his arms as he let out a few strangled noises; he thought he could hear John, who was apparently trying to grab the intruder and shouting, "Mrs. Hudson! Quickly! The lights!"

The consulting detective was starting to lose consciousness when the lights turned on; they blinded him, and he closed his eyes, holding out for as long as he could, his lungs aching, the grip he had on his opponents' arms slackening when suddenly, the man fell down on top of him and was dragged away in the same instant, and Sherlock breathed in greedily, coughing, and someone was running their fingers through his hair, "It's alright, my dear, just relax".

Once the dizziness had passed, he opened his eyes to find Mrs. Hudson looking down at him while John checked his pulse.

"The – man?" he croaked before starting to cough again.

"John's tied him up with a belt. Don't strain yourself" his landlady ordered.

He tried to ask question, but she shook her head; however, he quickly called out to the doctor, "Tobias? Greg?"

John appeared in his line of vision, nodded, and was gone; he sat up despite Mrs. Hudson's protests and saw for the first time the cricket bat in her hand.

"I always keep one nearby, you never you who might want to break in" she explained. "I was woken up by the gunshot, and it was a good thing I did, because I think he would have killed me otherwise – and I couldn't get to it in time, but I thought I might, so I acted like I was crying and desperate, and when you came in, I quickly searched for it under the bed, and when John told me to turn on the lights I did – and you were there, being strangled – I simply hit him with all my strength. He might be severely injured, but I don't care".

While he listened to Mrs. Hudson's story, Sherlock quickly stored the information and got up. The man who was lying unconscious and tied up at their feet hadn't fired the shot. Therefore, whoever had must have fired at Greg...

Before he got to the door, John and Tobias appeared, Greg, who was holding a bleeding arm between them.

Mrs. Hudson insisted they put him on her bed. John inspected the wound quickly.

"Just a flesh wound" he declared, relieved. "The bullet barely struck him. He is a bit disoriented, but only because he got a hit on the head – he should be fine".

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. He looked at Tobias.

"It wasn't difficult, really" the other man said, "Greg was fighting him off when I got there".

He didn't know what to expect, making his way through the dark towards the guest bedroom. He knew that Greg might be dead, but found that he couldn't bear the thought. He wouldn't allow any of the people Sherlock Holmes cared for to suffer. It wasn't certain that the bullet had killed Greg.

His hope, a hope that he would never have allowed to enter his mind before he met Sherlock Holmes, was proven correct when he heard the sound of muffled fighting through the door; the intruder must have managed to gag Greg or struggle him partially before he woke up and he had to resort to his gun.

There was no time to think. He rushed in and searched the wall for the light switch; he managed to find it in seconds and turned it on.

Greg and a woman he recognized were rolling round on the floor, the DI's left arm bleeding; she had her hands on his throat, and he was desperately gasping for every breath of air he could find. The only reason she hadn't shot him yet was that he must have managed to throw away her gun – it was lying near the door, Tobias registered. The only reason he was still alive and hadn't choked yet was that he was rolling around so much that he could breathe now and then.

He couldn't shoot her, not without harming Greg, so he restored to beating her on the head with his gun.

She turned around, but let her fingers slip away from Greg's throat, and the DI quickly threw a punch at the back of her head. It was enough to set her off balance, and when she fell, Tobias hit her again, this time knocking her out.

Greg was coughing on the floor.

"Thanks".

"Don't mention it. Can you sit up?"

He inspected the wound and was relieved to find the bullet had barely grazed him.

"I – I woke up" the DI explained, coughing. "I knew someone was in the room, and I moved. She tried to shoot me, but – "

"Thankfully it was only your arm" Tobias finished. "Do you have anything I can use to tie her up with?"

"There's another belt in my bag".

The ex hit man tied his former colleague's arms and legs together just as John barged through the door, his gun dropping when he found them mostly unharmed.

"The Montpellier siblings" he explained once they had deposited Greg on Mrs. Hudson's bed.

"Canadias. They only work together. If Greg hadn't woken up – "

Sherlock didn't need him to finish the sentence. "I'll call Mycroft" he announced, already on his way to get his phone from their flat, "guard them".

John turned to ask Tobias to look after the other intruder when Greg stood up. He ignored their protests.

"She's unconscious. I think I can handle it".

Once he was gone, an uncomfortable silence settled over the room; Mrs. Hudson sat down on the bed, John and Tobias remained standing.

"Thank you" the ex soldier eventually said.

The ex hit man shook his head. "If Greg hadn't fought the way he did..."

Sherlock came back a few minutes later; the DI returned when he heard him enter the flat.

"Mycroft will send a team to pick them up. Us as well".

John frowned. "Us? You mean – "

"Us all. We're going to a safe house. In the city, and we are going to visit the conference alongside my brother. My conditions." Sherlock paused before adding, "I also informed him he just lost a surveillance team".

John should have known. One maybe, but there was no way two hit men could trick Mycroft's men without taking them out.

"Pack as quickly as possible" Sherlock ordered before leaving the room, and John quickly followed after Tobias had assure him that he and Greg would look after their captives meanwhile.


	19. Leaving

Once he'd changed clothes, he began to pack.

John didn't really pay attention to the clothes he was throwing into the bag; his mind was still reeling with what had taken place only a few minutes ago.

Sherlock and him in danger – he could deal with that. He was used to it. Even Greg, to an extent. But Mrs. Hudson – the only time he'd ever seen her in danger before was when the Americans had attacked her, and then Sherlock had already had the situation under control.

Thankfully she had reacted admirably. And thankfully Greg had woken up.

If he hadn't, if the assassin hadn't been forced to shoot –

Or if she had shot him –

By the time they arrived, Mrs. Hudson would have been dead as well.

He found himself worrying about Tobias too. He wasn't his friend, but he had helped them and he would definitely have earned his trust now, even if he hadn't considered saving Sherlock's life twice enough, which he did. He felt bad that he hadn't worried about his safety, just allowed him to go in without backup, but it had been the only thing he could do. He wouldn't leave Sherlock's side.

He went to the bathroom and grabbed his toothbrush; he only noticed his knuckles were white when he threw it into the bag and took a deep breath. He had to calm down. He didn't want Sherlock to think that he blamed him. This wasn't the consulting detective's fault.

Remembering Sherlock's normal way of packing – which consisted of forgetting everything a normal person would take with him and carefully transporting chemicals and the violin in his bag – he went back to the bathroom and made sure to get Sherlock's toothbrush, as well as several towels extra. He was aware that Mycroft would make sure they had everything they needed, but he would feel more comfortable with his own things. They both would.

Not that they would be particularly comfortable in the safe house to begin with. The flat was their home, had been since they had moved in after meeting one another not twenty-four hours before, and it simply didn't feel right to leave, to be chased away by a criminal. He wouldn't say anything, however, wouldn't risk that Sherlock suddenly changed his mind.

Although the doctor doubted he would. Sherlock was scared for them, which meant he would go to the safe house; but if it was really safe, or if his best friend would stay there for the next two days was another question.

And the Montpelliers had not only broken into their home, but they had dispatched Mycroft's surveillance team too. And one had to be good to work for the British Government to begin with. Plus, after what had happened earlier with Carew and the sniper, he surely would only have sent his best...

He wondered how much safer a safe house could be.

At least they would all be in each other's sights almost constantly, instead of dividing between two flats. Although he wasn't sure if the constant proximity of four people was something Sherlock would be comfortable with.

When he took his bag in the living room, Sherlock was already there, carrying his own as well as the violin case.

"I assume you took my toothbrush?" he asked, and John nodded.

Sherlock picked up Tobias' bag from the sofa.

"Let's go, then".

Sherlock hated leaving Baker Street like this; hated the fact that he didn't know when he would return. It woke too many memories he'd rather forget.

Tobias emerged from the guest bedroom when they opened Mrs. Hudson's door.

"She's still out cold" he said. "Let me – is that my bag?"

He sounded surprised, and Sherlock, as he gave it to him, was reminded once more that he might be the first to consider the ex hit man a friend.

"Thank you" Tobias said thankfully. "Mycroft's guys will take care of them?"

Sherlock nodded. "Siblings, I gather?"

"One of the reasons they work so well together. Most of them are lone wolfs."

The consulting detective noticed the use of "them", clearly indicating that Tobias counted himself as part of their team, and smiled before realizing that this was a conversation where it was probably not socially acceptable to smile, so he stopped.

"We got lucky" Tobias continued, softly. "Thank God Greg has good instincts. If he hadn't – "

He stopped and looked at Sherlock. "Sorry. Didn't want to make you feel – "

"It's the truth, Tobias" the consulting detective answered. "There is no reason not to speak it".

They smiled at each other, the understanding between them making it easier than it should have been to talk about death threats and hit men.

Sherlock turned around to find that John had left while they had been speaking, most likely to take over watching the man so Mrs. Hudson and Greg could pack, and remembered that they should probably look after the woman while the DI collected his things in the guest bedroom.

Greg emerged from Mrs. Hudson's room and raised an eyebrow.

"How's – "

"Still unconscious" Tobias replied. "Sherlock brought me my bag" he added, as if it was the most important thing on his mind right now.

"Nice" the DI commented without bothering to point out this was hardly something to be thankful for, and went to his room.

"Can you keep an eye on her while I pack?"

Sherlock moved before Tobias could.

"John will take care of your arm" he said, feeling guilty as he took in the red stain on the t-shirt the DI had slept in.

He shook his head.

"It doesn't hurt." When Sherlock raised an eyebrow, he admitted, "It hurts a little. I'll live. We can do that once we're safe."

The consulting detective doubted they would be safe anywhere – if someone could get rid of Mycroft's surveillance team and break in a house that had several cameras trained on it, there was no reason he couldn't get in a safe house as well – but he didn't say so out loud.

Greg wanted to change as well, so he turned around and waited. Meanwhile, he deduced the woman; it wasn't necessary but he needed to think of something else than the threat hanging over them, if only for a moment.

_Early thirties, one male relative she's close to – that would be her brother, has been working as an assassin for at least seven years, no friends, likes to read –_

"You can turn around. Anything interesting?"

"No. She's an assassin."

She was nowhere near as interesting as Tobias had been. Just a killer.

He watched, amused, as Greg collected all the things that he had succeeded in scattering over the room in the short time he'd been there. There were mostly clothes, but a few books and a photograph – if Sherlock was right, of the DI, John and him – which Greg usually kept in his living room.

While his office was always tidy, the DI's flat had always been messy, much to the chagrin of his now ex-wife; he needed to surround himself with familiar objects to feel at home.

Sometimes Sherlock wondered if that was another reason they had understood one another almost immediately. He felt the same way about his possessions. When he had any with him. Which opened the way again for the memories he'd tried really hard not to think about.

The DI knew him well enough that he didn't even try to apologize for the mess, as Sherlock supposed most people would have done.

"That's it, I think" he finally announced, eying the room suspiciously.

"I am sure that we will find a way to return any forgotten possessions to their rightful owner" Sherlock remarked sarcastically.

Greg simply shook his head and fondly and picked up his bag.

He looked at the woman at Sherlock's feet.

"Mycroft will make sure they are placed where they can't harm anyone" Sherlock said.

The DI nodded, although, as he followed Sherlock out of the room, he was a bit uncertain what exactly this entailed. It didn't have to mean that they would go to prison. Mycroft might want to state an example. Not that Greg would have a problem with it.

He felt the same way.

He would start to worry about what this might mean when they had sorted out this situation. Or he could simply accept that he had gone mad now. It would certainly make things easier.

Mrs. Hudson was standing in the living room, a small suitcase next to her.

"The young man hasn't woken up yet" she said. "I think I hit him rather hard".

She didn't sound sorry.

Greg took her suitcase, and she smiled.

"Thank you, dear. I hope I didn't forget anything – "

"If you did, Mycroft will be more than glad to get you anything you might need during your short stay" Sherlock interrupted, putting emphasis on the "short". They were going to return soon.

His phone rang.

"The limousine is ready" Mycroft announced. A text would have done, but just when Sherlock had called him to tell him what had happened, the British Government sounded worried; he obviously needed to hear his voice, and his brother might not want to admit it, but it calmed him down as well.

"Thank you" he answered honestly before hanging up.

It was a limousine with darkened windows, naturally; none of them had asked where the safe house was because it would be fruitless.

Sherlock could tell where they were driving based on the sounds the wheels made on the asphalt and the ones they could hear the city make, but since his friends either knew or suspected he did, he saw no point in telling them.

The safe house lay in a nice part of town and, as they alighted, Sherlock registered with relief that it was big enough that each of them could get his own room. He wanted to keep his friends close to protect them, but he didn't like it if he had no space for himself at all.

As soon as they had entered, John dragged Greg to the sofa and insisted on looking at his wound; the DI protested that it wasn't necessary, but let him clean and bandage it anyway.

Sherlock sighed when he saw that it was indeed only a graze, and barely one at that; it had long since stopped bleeding and would be healed in a few days.

He caught Tobias gaze; the ex hit man gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Sherlock thought he saw relief in his eyes as well.

Mrs. Hudson was already going through the rooms and immediately decided that she wanted "the one upstairs at the back"; she then proceeded to go to the kitchen and check that they had enough food in the fridge and enough tea in the cupboard.

It was just getting light when everyone had taken the room they wanted – Tobias choosing the one Sherlock had been sure he would take, the first one on the first floor, so he would either be the first to be attacked or would hear any intruder as soon as they were on the stairs – and they decided to get some rest, although it was clear that they wouldn't. They might not have got much sleep, but none of them felt tired.

Sherlock therefore decided that he could play his violin. He needed it. Quickly he took it out of the case he barely used and started playing. The familiar melodies calmed him down, the tension in his muscles slowly disappearing. The notes floated in the air, drifting down the hallway, making it easier to deal with the threat hanging over them.

However, he couldn't relax. Not completely. They were still in danger, and he wasn't at Baker Street. They had driven him from his home.

And he vowed that he'd do anything he could to make sure he and his friends returned as soon as possible.


	20. The Calm Before The Storm

John hadn't thought that the next two days would be easy.

They were pure torture.

It wasn't that Sherlock wasn't trying; he was doing his best to be polite. But the consulting detective could only stand so much and being forced to leave his flat and live with four people – not to mention that they still didn't know who was behind everything, didn't get much information (except for a short text from Mycroft, informing them that Sir James Walter's brother had been arrested) and that he couldn't leave –

John had always known that Sherlock valued his freedom. More than once, he had woken up in the middle of the night with the feeling that he was alone in the flat, and he was certain that he'd been right. Sherlock liked to roam around the city he loved and protected; he liked to go wherever he pleased, whether it was a crime scene or the house of a friend; and now that had been taken from him.

The only reason he didn't spend most of the time in his room was that he wanted to keep an eye on his friends, John was sure. There was no other reason for hanging around the living or dining room without doing anything productive.

No matter what they did, they couldn't get him to eat. Mrs. Hudson cooked all his favourites, but not even she could convince him to take more than a few bites before he would push the plate away and start pacing.

John would have been worried, but he still tried to give him a smile now and then, and before the retired at night, he squeezed his shoulder. Sherlock was worried, but he wasn't in danger of doing something stupid. Not yet.

The doctor was almost relieved when he realized they would have only twelve more hours until Mycroft's conference started.

Greg watched Sherlock carefully. There had been a time, when he'd first met him, when he'd always been like this – tense, silent – but he chose not to think about that. Sherlock was worried, and he had every reason to be. He only wished he could give him comfort, but all he could do was share the surveillance duty with John and Tobias – eventually, on that first night, they had all found their way into the kitchen because they couldn't sleep, and decided that one of them should always be awake, in case anyone tried anything.

Sherlock was awake the whole time, of course, although he spent the night in his room to hide the fact. Greg didn't think he'd slept since he'd first heard about the threat on his life. Mrs. Hudson was the only one of them who really got some rest; but they wouldn't have expected her to share their guard duties anyway, and she certainly made up for it by keeping them all, all who would eat, that was, well-fed.

But, despite the fact that they certainly could have spent these two days far more uncomfortable, Greg couldn't help but feel scared.

He didn't like his consulting detective being silent. The last time he hadn't said anything, he'd let himself being arrested, and –

He chose not to think about that. And Sherlock wasn't completely silent. He talked, and he played his violin at night. Even if it would have kept him up – which it didn't, in fact it was so comforting that he drifted off to sleep while listening to the melodies – he wouldn't have complained. Sherlock was expressing himself through the instrument, his worries, his fear, and he was more than ready to listen.

He cornered him on the end of the first day in the safe house – the third day of waiting – though, just to be sure.

"Sherlock, I – "

He didn't really know what to say, to be honest. He only wanted to assure the consulting detective that they were safe, and that they were content, and that was all anyone could ask for –

The man who had never cared for small talk in his life and who, when they had met, had been incapable of being polite to anyone, looked him in the eyes and interrupted him with, "I know, Greg". Then he left.

Sherlock Holmes would never lose his ability to surprise him.

That night, hopefully the last they would spend here, John asked as he came down to relieve him, "Is he alright?"

"You know he is" Greg answered firmly.

The doctor smiled and went to his room.

Greg sat on the sofa for three hours, listening to the music that didn't seem to stop. He understood that Sherlock didn't want to sleep – although he still didn't understand how he managed to stay awake – but he had played through all of last night, and he was obviously going to play through this one too.

He was tempted to call Mycroft, but he knew that if there had been any new developments, they would already have been informed. And the British Government had enough to worry about without Greg pestering him.

He sighed. He hoped desperately that they would be able to catch whoever was behind this at the conference, without putting themselves in danger, but he wasn't hopeful. Whoever was able to make himself undetectable, so undetectable that Mycroft Holmes himself couldn't find him was likely to cause great damage. Whether it might be to the conference, the country, or one of them.

He was startled out of his thoughts by Tobias clearing his throat. He gave him a nod and a smile and was almost out the door when the ex hit man asked, "He's composing, isn't he?"

Greg stopped and listened and decided that Sherlock was indeed composing a new piece; from time to time he stopped, only to begin again with the same part he'd played before, with a few notes changed. He kept standing in the doorway, fascinated by the creation he was witnessing, and eventually remembered that Tobias had asked him something. All he could do was turn around and nod.

"I never heard someone compose something before". Tobias paused. "It's nice."

It was, Greg was ready to admit that. Thinking about it – he had never heard Sherlock compose anything either, only the finished piece or the screeching noises he made when he was annoyed.

Now here he was, and he was listening while Sherlock created something beautiful amidst this tense and awful situation. He smiled.

"Me neither" he replied. "And you're right. It's nice".

He left without saying goodnight. Tobias wouldn't be angry. There was simply no point when there was something infinitely more fascinating to listen to.

The ex hit man sat down, gun in hand, listening to the music. He was glad Sherlock had an outlet; it was clear that the consulting detective was feeling the pressure. He could understand him – in fact, for the first time in a long time, maybe forever, he could understand someone's worry for some they cared about.

He was experiencing it too.

Sherlock had told them that he, Greg, John and Tobias would attend the conference, although not in which position. The ex hit man guessed that Mycroft would smuggle them in as some kind of diplomats. In the end, it didn't matter; what mattered was keeping the Holmes alive until they could identify the person responsible.

The music didn't stop. He wasn't worried that Sherlock wouldn't get enough sleep; he knew enough about staying up all night to know that eventually it became a habit and that the consulting detective wouldn't be any weaker for it.

He was used to waiting to; and this time, unlike the many other where he had waited, he knew what he was waiting for and when it would end.

So he listened to the music and relaxed, but he never let his guard down.

Or took the finger of the trigger.

Sherlock played through both nights. He couldn't think of anything else to do – there were no chemicals he could experiment with, no clues to follow up, and Mycroft hadn't contacted him since he'd told him about Valentine Walter.

His brother was busy going through the politicians who would attend the conference, and Sherlock had no doubt that he could have helped; but since Mycroft didn't want to attract any suspicion that they knew someone was trying to kill him, he was hiding in a safe house and waiting.

It would be over soon, he told himself. The conference was tomorrow, and they could return home. Maybe Tobias would stay a little longer. He didn't seem to sleep much either, and it would be nice to have a conversation with the ex hit man without the death threat hanging over them.

Finally, after he had composed a new piece, the dawn broke.

The conference was going to start at 10 am. A limousine was picking them up at eight and taking them to Mycroft's, where they would make a plan.

At half past seven he took a shower and changed into a new suit. Then he went into the living room. Soon enough John, Greg and Tobias followed him.

At exactly eight am, they got into the limousine.

It was time.


	21. Preparations

Mrs. Hudson watched them go. She was worried. She never liked it when her boys ran into dangerous situations.

She would have preferred if they could have stayed and waited for Mycroft to find the one who did this, but she'd known right away that Sherlock would run in the middle of it. And John would be right behind him, as he should be.

At least they weren't alone. They had Greg and Tobias.

She'd grown quite fond of the young man who'd shown up so unexpectedly. He was quiet and polite, and the consulting detective trusted him; she thought that she'd at first detected some tension between their visitor and the doctor, but now he seemed to tolerate him, at least.

And he had helped them. Thank God he'd been there; she didn't know what would have happened to Greg otherwise. As to herself – she'd known the boys would come, of course; she'd been scared for them. But she knew that many people, even killers, were reluctant about hurting old ladies, had seen it in the hit men's eyes, and she had been confident that she would be able to defend herself if she could distract him long enough to reach for the cricket bat she always kept nearby. She had made a habit of being prepared for anything when she'd still been married.

She made herself a cuppa and resigned herself to wait. After all, her boys had always come back, even if she'd had to wait a long time.

The drive to Mycroft's house didn't take long, which proved Sherlock assumptions were the safe house lay.

"So your brother has narrowed down the list of suspects?" Tobias asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"Let's hope he's more successful then with Sir James Walter" he added. He was simply stating a fact, and Sherlock felt that he might be thankful for the ex hit man's clear head today. Tobias was quick, and he was a good fighter. And he was loyal; Sherlock had never doubted it, but he could see that John finally trusted him completely too.

He was glad. They would need to trust each other today.

When they reached Mycroft's house, Sherlock wasted no time but quickly got out of the limousine and almost ran towards the front door. Normally, he would have tried to appear dignified in front of his brother. Now he didn't care.

The elder Holmes opened the door and stepped aside.

He mustered Sherlock and his friends and sighed.

"I already suspected that you would be in need of proper clothing for the occasion. You will find suits in the second room upstairs. As to you, Sherlock" he turned to his brother who, as always, was dressed in a suit, "there's a tie in the dining room."

The consulting detective frowned; he hated wearing ties. John shot him a smile as he made his way upstairs; Greg and Tobias came after him, the ex hit man wisely choosing not to ask how Mycroft knew which size he wore.

Sherlock went into the dining room without waiting for his brother to lead the way.

Three files lay on the table, next to a blue tie.

He put it on, asking, "So these are the suspects?"

"Obviously" Mycroft drawled.

"Only the three?"

"I assure you, brother mine, that I have no reason to suspect anyone else who will be attending the conference."

There was no use in asking Mycroft how he knew. Sherlock accepted that his brother was right and continued, "So we have to keep you alive and figure out who it is."

"Not only me. Whoever it was will be angry that you escaped. Therefore – "

"It might be possible that a hit man shows up" Sherlock sighed. As if it wasn't going to be difficult enough to find the would-be murderer of the British Government in an assembly of people whose job it was to hide their true feelings and motivations.

John, Greg and Tobias found the room and quickly split to put the suits on.

When they met again the hallway, the DI shook his head.

"He didn't need to get a new one for me. I own suits."

"And you think I don't?" John inquired.

"I wouldn't know. Are you aware one can buy something else in clothing stores than jumpers?"

"I don't own a suit" Tobias interrupted. "I used to borrow mine". It had been easier to travel with only a small amount of clothes, and whenever he needed to get close to a target in a place where he would attract attention in his usual attire, he had known where to go and always to pay in cash.

"If we make it out of this alive, Mycroft might allow you to keep it" Greg joked. John raised an eyebrow at his attempt to make light of the situation, but didn't seem to mind.

While they were making their way downstairs, Tobias wondered if his targets had had friend who'd tried to protect them, and what he would have done had he known. He had never had to kill a witness – he'd always been careful – but he might have easily come into such a situation, and he could easily have killed someone like Greg or John without a second thought.

Not to mention that, if Sherlock hadn't kidnapped him, he could very well have been one of the hit men targeting him right now.

He supposed this might be what guilt felt like. He wouldn't know. And he had to concentrate on the matter at hand. He was here to protect Sherlock. And his friends. And his brother.

The consulting detective and the British Government were impatiently waiting for them.

Sherlock's gaze swept over them before turning to Mycroft.

"We are to be members of the diplomatic corps? I think, since the other diplomats at the conference have never seen us before... And there's a chance John and I will be recognized".

"Which is why you two are not there as members of the diplomatic corps, but as part of the security detail" Mycroft replied. "And yes, officially. It is probable that whoever wants to murder me is keeping a close eye on my office, so I had one of the politicians who owes me a favour insist that you be part of the conference because he felt you would make a good impression on the foreign diplomats. You are quite famous, brother mine".

Sherlock didn't react to his sarcasm and instead answered, "The person responsible will think it a coincidence, a possibility to kill two birds with one stone".

The British Government nodded.

Then he proceeded to talk about the suspects.

Martin Kellers, 34, occupied a minor position in the Ministry of Inner Affairs. Mycroft considered him dangerous for the simple reason that he always knew what to say and tended to play down his intelligence; there was also some evidence that he had tried to make friends with some of the British Government's associates.

George Pelton, 57, a long-standing member of the diplomatic corps and bitter that he had never got the recognition he felt he deserved. Mycroft freely admitted that he had never thought he deserved any – he was too blunt to be a good diplomat.

Hellen Carr, 44. Strong willed and working in one of the many departments of the Ministry of Justice, and had already made herself indispensable to the Secretary of State for Justice. She had made it clear that she would gladly be part of Mycroft's "team" and had been furious when he had denied her request. According to him, she was too focused on her career to serve the country well.

Once they'd gone over the files and committed everything important to memory, Mycroft looked at his watch before calmly announcing, "It is time." The limousine was already waiting for them.

As they followed his brother into the building where the conference was held, Sherlock took a deep breath.

Ten hours of presentations and meetings and private discussions. Three suspects. One murderer.

The game was on.


	22. Best Laid Plans

John was glad that Mycroft had put him and Sherlock in the security detail; he had never felt comfortable dressed up, and he didn't think he'd be a good diplomat.

He knew Sherlock would make a terrible one, though. All the more reason to be happy about Mycroft's decision.

Apparently, they had been added to the security detail but weren't under any orders, which meant that the Chief of Security, a middle-aged man named Hobson, ignored them pointedly. At least they wouldn't have to deal with him.

He watched the British Government introduce a DI and an ex hit man to several politicians and smiled. He didn't doubt that they'd do a good job. Greg had always been a good diplomat – his ability to keep his job even after he had invited Sherlock to crime scenes being the proof – and Tobias had to be used to acting. Otherwise, he'd probably never have got close to some of his targets.

The thought of Tobias' former job made the doctor uncomfortable, but not because he didn't trust him – quite the opposite. He had come to like the man in the last two days, and it felt strange to feel that way about a murderer.

Sherlock came to stand beside him.

"Any look?"

The consulting detective shook his head.

"I have seen our three suspects, but I can't say which one of them wants to kill Mycroft. We will have to wait, I am afraid."

John heard the well-disguised worry in his tone and said, "We will stop him. Or her. We won't let anything happen."

"Of course not".

The doctor wondered if Sherlock realized that he sounded far from sure, but didn't push it.

"So we are supposed to tail Mycroft?"

His best friend nodded.

"Yes. We are to be where he is at all times. Greg and Tobias will keep an eye on the suspects, should they happen to be at different meetings or presentations".

"Wouldn't it have been better if you were the one to – " John started before stopping himself. He was an idiot.

There had been a time when Sherlock would have following the suspects, but now – he wanted to be close to his brother. To protect him. The doctor should know better, really.

He cleared his throat.

"I guess when I tell anyone what they were talking about he'll kill me?"

Sherlock smirked. "It's in the realm of possibilities".

John noticed the looks people were shooting him and Sherlock, and decided that all of them had heard about Sherlock's return. Most likely a few of them even read his blog. It was a good thing that they hadn't tried to disguise themselves; while Sherlock could have pulled it off, the doctor would have revealed himself within five minutes.

As he reflected that one of them most likely put the hit on his best friend, he moved closer. Sherlock shot him an annoyed look. John answered with one if his own that told the consulting detective he wouldn't be able to convince him to concentrate more on Mycroft and less on him.

Thankfully, the diplomats and politicians knew better than to address them, even if they might have been curious, and so they could stand in the back and watch as Greg and Tobias mingled with the group.

"I do not think that the French policy will be a hindrance in any way – "

Tobias was discussing a topic he knew quite a lot about with a Dutch diplomat. If course he didn't mention that the reason he did was that he had killed one of the members of the French senate who had been against it last year.

He didn't find it difficult to pretend. He never had, and his job had taught him how to fit in everywhere. He had to admit that he was actually having fun. Maybe more than the situation allowed, but he was on his guard, so nothing should happen.

He had an eye on their suspects – Greg a few meters beside him did as well – and they hadn't done anything suspicious.

Greg was trying to make somewhat intelligent conversation with a woman who had introduced herself as an employee in the Ministry of Defence. He had never cared much for politics but thankfully she had decided that she wanted to make small talk before the conference truly began.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tobias talking animatedly and wondered when the ex hit man had had the time to learn how to act like a diplomat. Then again, it was probably better he didn't know.

He had his back turned towards Sherlock and John and didn't like it. True, the doctor would keep an eye on the consulting detective, but he would have preferred if he could have as well.

As far as he could tell, the suspects were standing around and talking like the others.

Based on the snippets of conversations he heard all around him, he was not looking forward to the presentations. Especially if the suspects should split up. He'd be on his own, then, and not have Tobias or Mycroft to interrupt him when he said something undiplomatic.

Mycroft was standing in a corner, discussing things Greg was sure he wasn't allowed to know anything about with a frustrated looking man in his thirties. Although he might not be frustrated; maybe he was scared. Mycroft Holmes could be intimidating when he wanted to be.

He forced himself to concentrate on what the woman was saying. There were too many suspects and too many potential victims, and their team was too small. He knew, of course, that neither Mycroft nor Sherlock would have accepted help from the police, and that the surveillance teams the British Government had put on duty at 221B had been far from successful. Still –

He dared not turn around, in case Sherlock berated him that they were supposed to be undercover and that he should watch the suspects.

Tobias appeared next to him and apologized to the woman he had been talking to before dragging Greg away.

"We got lucky. Kellers and Carr are going to attend one presentation; Pelton is taking part in the discussion Mycroft's interested in".

When he saw Greg's look, he corrected, "Maybe not interested, but he's going to be there. Which means –"

"We have Kellers and Carr, and Sherlock and John are taking care of Mycroft and Pelton" Greg finished. "How do you know – "

"The man I talked to apparently has something to discuss with Kellers – he didn't say it outright, but he dropped a few hints after I made it seem like I was interested in his opinion on the Korean elections. He wanted to brag, to be frank. It wasn't difficult to find out where he, and therefore, Kellers, would be. And Carr – the woman next to me was talking about how she would try to convince her to nominate a certain person for a certain position. Like I said, we got lucky".

While Greg was relieved they didn't have to split up and face the potential murderers alone, he was still nervous. It didn't have to stay that way. It was one of those conferences that was kept secret for precisely the reason that there was no fixed schedule and diplomats could discuss important matters of state under the guise of unimportant discussions and presentations, which meant anyone could change their seats when they wanted to.

Plus, he didn't know if "lucky" was the word he'd use to describe their situation. They would be separated from the Holmes.

"Sherlock and John can stop Pelton, if the need arises" Tobias argued, sensing his reluctance. "And there's a bigger chance that we're in a room with the murderer. Now, if we should happen to see anything that looks suspicious – "

He gave the DI a small smile. Greg answered it with one of his own and said, "I'm just glad I don't have to pay attention to the discussion. I'm not fond of politics."

Tobias shrugged. "You get used to it. After you pretend long enough".

"I hope we're not here long enough for me to get used to it".

Greg focused on the suspects they'd have to deal with; Martin Kellers and Hellen Carr. He knew better than to ask Tobias if he thought one of them more likely to be the would-be murderer; the ex hit man would have told him if that had been the case.

When he turned to the other man, however, he saw that he wasn't looking at the two government employees.

He was slowly making his way over to Sherlock and John, moving so silently and swiftly that no one paid attention to him. That solved their problem of how they'd tell the two who was going to be where.

Greg focused on the suspects and Mycroft again; the British Government had finally mingled with the diplomats and was listening to what was no doubt a very long and very elaborate opinion about politics. He wasn't even near Kellers, Car or Pelton, so the DI didn't worry too much.

He couldn't see how anyone could do much, to be honest. Killing someone in a mass had the advantage of there being multiple suspects; but there also were many potential witnesses around. And if one planned on killing Mycroft Holmes, or Sherlock Holmes, the plan had to be very good indeed.

Tobias appeared noiselessly next to him and nodded.

At this moment, it was announced that the program was about to start, and the DI and the ex hit man followed the crowd to the presentation Kellers and Carr would be at.

John watched Tobias move towards them and was impressed. Not one head turned as the ex hit man passed. He quickly came to stand beside John and whispered to him that he and Greg would tail Kellers and Carr, while the consulting detective and his blogger were following Mycroft and Pelton.

He nodded and Tobias left.

The doctor wasn't sure if Sherlock had paid attention to their exchange, but of course he had. He was tense and quickly shushed John when he tried to explain to him what he'd just heard.

"I know. I listened."

"Sherlock – this is good. Tobias and Greg are more than capable of taking care of one assassin."

"I don't doubt it". His best friend bit his lip.

Before the doctor could say anything to try to ease the tension, he announced, "It's starting".

"Surely no one would dare try anything" John stated in a whisper as they made their way into the room Mycroft would spend the next two hours in. "We are here, and – "

"Whoever wants to kill him put a hit out on me, both as a distraction and a precaution" Sherlock answered, keeping his eyes on Pelton. "Such a person is ready to do anything to reach his goal".

There was nothing John could say, so he silently followed the consulting detective.

He had been prepared for many things, but not for what actually occurred twenty minutes into the discussion, just as a man with a Scandinavian accent was passionately defending some country's rights to fish in another country's sea.

The building was equipped with the modern sort of shutters that closed when someone pushed a button that John had never understood the need for; why couldn't one simply pull the shutters or, quite frankly, leave the windows of a building that only housed conferences and not offices without them at night?

All of the shutters closed at the same time, plunging not only the room, but the whole building into darkness. The panic didn't break out until someone tried to switch on the lights and realized they didn't work.

John went to grab Sherlock's arm only to find that the consulting detective was no longer at his side.

At the same time, Greg and Tobias moved across the room. They had to know if the suspects were still were they had been before the lights went out, although Greg wasn't optimistic. The politicians around them were moving, running, demanding an explanation; they couldn't expect to find them again.

They had to try regardless.

He cursed his thoughtlessness not to put the flash light he usually carried with him in the suit Mycroft had bought. He should have known. If there was one thing that could surprise the Holmes, it was a simple plan. Drop the shutters. Make everyone panic. And once this was done –

A woman's voice pierced through the darkness, shrill and scared.

"Murder!"


	23. Knife In The Dark

As soon as the shutters went down, Sherlock knew what was happening.

He had fallen for it again; he hadn't learned anything since that talk with Moriarty on the rooftop.

The consulting criminal's words came back to haunt him.

_You want everything to be clever._

Neither he nor Mycroft had entertained the possibility that the suspect might simply draw down the shutters. The many phones the politicians had in their pockets were turned off, naturally, and wouldn't give much light anyway.

Sherlock quickly moved. Pelton had been sitting three rows behind Mycroft. He had to get to his brother. John would be angry, but in the dark, amidst all the people, a companion would be a hindrance.

His brother would have moved as well; but Pelton might still be in place.

It was impossible to use a gun, unless one had night vision googles; he might have concealed them, but Sherlock didn't think it likely. Regardless, he took care to move quickly.

He was still looking for his brother – having decided that he would stand in the proximity of a wall, completely still, to make sure no one could hear him – that he heard the scream.

"Murder!"

At first, he couldn't even tell if it had come from the same room he was in. It was a woman's voice, but he didn't recognize her.

Finally, someone had had the good sense to turn on their mobile phone and others did the same. Sherlock quickly used his to search for his brother and found him a little apart from the others, standing against a wall right of the door, near the exit. At the same moment, John bumped into him, breathing a relieved "You utter..."

"Did you hear where the scream came from?" the consulting detective asked.

"No, I didn't" John hissed back, "it just gave me a heart attack".

He had never felt more helpless in his life than at the moment when he'd still been trying to find his phone while at the same time pushing people left and right to find Sherlock and the scream had rung through the room. Until he had bumped into him, he had feared the worst. The consulting detective wasn't worried about the British Government, he could tell, so he obviously knew his brother was safe for the time being.

What if Greg or Tobias had got hurt? John swallowed. He couldn't theorize without data, as Sherlock always said.

Sherlock didn't keep the light on Mycroft, passed him so that their suspect wouldn't get suspicious and called out, "Ladies and Gentlemen, please stay calm. Who called out?"

A gentle voice said, "That was me". Sherlock could tell that the woman was crying, but he didn't have time to be polite.

He moved towards the voice, closely followed by John, and soon found a small middle-aged woman in the light of his phone. She pointed wordlessly on the floor.

He kneeled down and moved his hand so that the light swept over the face of the man.

His eyes were open. His throat had been cut.

"Pelton is not the killer" he explained. But why had he been killed? Could it be possible – no, there was no reason to use Sherlock as a distraction if the target wasn't Mycroft.

He looked up at the woman who had alerted them to the murder, her face just visible in the dim light.

"I stumbled and fell on top of him" she began, "and I felt something wet on my blouse so I touched the spot – and I just smelled the blood and – "

"Thank you" John said, kneeling down beside the body. "We understand this is difficult". She sniffled a little, but stopped talking, and Sherlock was infinitely grateful. He wouldn't have been able to calm her down.

"What do you think?" he asked his friend.

John examined the wound.

"A sharp, not too long blade. Wouldn't take much strength. I doubt the killer would be blood stained – "

"Since his throat was cut from behind" Sherlock finished. There was every reason to think it had been. If the murderer had attacked Pelton while standing in front of him, there would have been a risk of staining himself with blood, and the victim might have cried out. If one chose to attack from behind, the victim didn't have a chance to cry out, and there was no danger of blood stains.

The people behind them were still hustling to and fro, demanding explanations, crying for help, and Sherlock registered that it hadn't come yet. Either no one had noticed that every shutter of the building had closed down or who was responsible had bought the maintenance crew. Or blackmailed them. Or worse.

Someone stumbled into the door.

"Sherlock? John? Mycroft?"

Greg sounded panicked, and the consulting detective quickly called out.

"We are fine. Pelton is dead".

He only realized he could have told the DI a little more diplomatically when the commotion behind him grew more frantic.

Maybe there were no clues to be got from the crime scene. They still had to preserve as much as they could.

"Help me carry the body into the hallway. Here, it'll just get trampled over." He raised his voice.

"Mycroft?"

His brother immediately stepped forward and called out.

"Please step back. The case will be investigated."

At the commanding sound of his brother's voice, there was a general movement backwards.

"Greg" Sherlock said, "Stay here."

The DI understood what he meant and moved from his place at the consulting detective's side towards Mycroft's voice.

When Sherlock heard him run into the British Government, he smiled. At least no one could see it in the dark.

"Where's Tobias?" he inquired.

"Calming down the politicians in the next room" the DI replied. "He wanted to check on you too, but I insisted."

The only reason Greg had won the discussion and gone off on his own was that they had both known that they were wasting precious time. Tobias had quickly given in and just started to address the room when the DI had left.

Sherlock and John dragged the body out of the room, both of them trying to light the way with their phones. The consulting detective had just kneeled down beside the body once more when Tobias called out to them. Sherlock replied to his question and then they fell silent.

A hand grabbed John from behind, silencing him. He struggled to free himself, to make some kind of noise, but he couldn't breathe and the last thing he felt before losing consciousness was strong pressure on his neck.

Greg heard his friends groaning as they carried out the body and wished he could have helped them, but knew that he was expected to watch over Mycroft.

He quickly called Tobias.

The former assassin answered his phone on the first ring.

"They're alright" Greg said immediately.

For a moment, all he could hear was Tobias' heavy breathing and the commotion that must be going on behind him.

"Who is it?"

"Pelton".

"Where is everyone?"

The DI informed him of their positions, adding that he would be able to hear Sherlock and John if he moved closer to the door. Tobias thanked him and hung up.

"Has anyone left the room?" Greg inquired.

"I would be happy to answer, but I can't. Naturally, panic broke out once it was realized that the lights didn't work. Anyone could have slipped out."

"And anyone could have killed Pelton".

Greg's phone gave enough light to show Mycroft's grim expression.

"Yes. And of course, we are in no position to find out. Not until help arrives."

"Did you – "

"I texted Anthea as soon as the shutters closed".

They wouldn't have to wait long. The PA was probably already on her way here, most likely with several electricians in tow.

He had to wait and make sure Mycroft was safe. He could do that.

When he heard Tobias call out shortly afterwards, he didn't hesitate, however. He ran out of the room, Mycroft at his heels.

Tobias, once he had convinced everyone to sit down, which took longer than he would have liked, slowly moved towards the door.

Thankfully, the tumult had quieted down and he could hear Sherlock and John heave the body into the hallway.

"Sherlock?" he called out, even though he knew it was silly. He knew already that he, John and Mycroft were fine. It was ridiculous that he needed to hear his friend's voice with everything else that was going on.

"Tobias. I can tell you succeeded in calming them down".

He sighed with relief before calling back, "Yes. I heard Pelton is the victim? How?"

"His throat was cut."

Making the shutters go down. Causing the lights not to work. Killing Pelton by cutting his throat.

Quick, efficient, precise.

Tobias suddenly had the feeling that one of his former colleagues must be attending the conference. But everyone who was here had a regular, if somewhat secret, job; surely Mycroft had checked that –

He should have known.

There were two types of hitmen.

Tobias had always thought his approach far more practical; no attachments, no "official" life.

But others –

There were many who had regular job and considered killing people, while not a hobby, more an opportunity to earn more money than they ever would while doing something legal.

If one of them was here –

He could be one of their suspects; or –

It was possible that he and the person who had made the plan were working together. Maybe they had never thought it likely that a contract killer would succeed in killing Sherlock. Maybe all of this had just been a distraction, until they got them here alone, until –

Tobias left the attendees to fend for themselves and raced into the hallway.

Only to stumble over a body.

For a moment, he thought that he'd run over Pelton and that Sherlock would scold him for tampering with the evidence, then he realized the body was breathing.

He scrambled over to his phone which he'd dropped and returned to find John on the floor, unconscious but otherwise unharmed.

"Sherlock?" he called out frantically, although he already knew it was useless. The consulting detective would never leave his best friend lying on the floor.

So he screamed for the only two people who could help him. "Greg! Mycroft!"

They arrived at his side seconds later.

"Sherlock has been taken."


	24. Search

Greg stared at the assassin, his heart pounding.

"Taken? Are – " He looked at the doctor who was lying motionless on the floor beside the body.

"John!"

"He is breathing. Just unconscious, I'd say. He'll be fine".

"How could this happen? John was a soldier. He wouldn't just let anyone sneak up on him." Greg examined his friend himself, as far as the light allowed, and registered with relief that Tobias was right. The doctor didn't appear to be injured.

There was no time to call an ambulance. He slapped John across the face. His friend stirred and moaned. Greg repeated the action and his eyes fluttered open. His gaze was unfocused at first, then he remembered what had happened and sat up.

"Take it slow" the DI said, even though he wanted nothing more than to run and try to find Sherlock as quickly as possible.

He might be –

No. No he wasn't. The consulting detective knew how to get out of dangerous situations.

But the attacker might have knocked him out to –

No. He had to concentrate. They all had to concentrate.

"John – "

"Sherlock?"

The doctor was frantic, trying to stand up when he clearly couldn't.

"John, you need to breathe" Tobias said, calmly. "This won't help Sherlock".

Greg shot the ex hitman a thankful look and stood up to where Mycroft was texting at his phone.

"Anthea?"

"They are still on their way" the British Government answered. "All our resources were focused on finding the one who put the – " he cleared his throat.

"It's not your fault" Greg said decidedly. He was convinced Mycroft needed to hear it, whether he admitted it or not.

John had got to his feet. He still looked somewhat shaken but denied any attempt of Tobias to help him and rushed over as fast as he could.

"Sherlock's been kidnapped. Do you think – "

"They wouldn't leave" Mycroft said. "Not until their goal was accomplished."

"Taking Sherlock – it's a trap" Tobias stated. "If we find him – "

"I know".

The British Government spoke as calmly as always. Greg could hear his determination to get his brother back at all costs.

"We might have to deal with more than one attacker" Tobias informed them. "Whoever killed Pelton – I am sure it was a professional. Creating a diversion. Being paid for it."

"You mean one of the assassins is here?"

Tobias nodded. "He or she didn't kill you because he wasn't paid for it" he explained.

John swayed from side to side for a moment but waved the DI away when he laid a hand on his arm.

"Where could they have taken him?"

"Upstairs" Mycroft replied immediately. "Where no one would disturb them. I suspect it's not only the lights that aren't working – most likely the power has been cut. No one would try climbing up the stairs in the dark, not even with a flashlight, unless they had a good reason for it".

"And how many floors does the building have?" Greg inquired.

"Six".

"Great. So we are supposed to search – "

"The next floor" Tobias suddenly interrupted him. "Sherlock would have made some kind of noise if he hadn't been knocked unconscious. And dragging a body up the stairs isn't easy."

John was already running towards the stairs. The others caught up to him. Their phones gave just enough light to ensure they didn't stumble over their own feet.

Tobias ran beside Greg.

"It's not going to be easy" he said between breaths, "they obviously want to get Mycroft alone – "

"He isn't" the DI answered, gasping for breath. Despite John having been unconscious less than ten minutes ago, it wasn't easy to keep up with him.

The doctor stopped running as soon as he had reached the next floor.

"Where?" he hissed at Tobias.

The ex hitman looked at him, his face pale in the harsh light of his smart phone.

"This – if there's one of your – if a contract killer – I'm a soldier. Greg is a detective. Mycroft is the Government. You were one of them. Tell us where you would hide."

John watched as Tobias' gaze swept across the hallway as far as the light would reach.

"Not in any of these. If possible, the last room on the floor – I would be trapped, but on the other hand, it's easy to defend. Naturally, any room with only one door will do. A group can't go through a door all at once."

He didn't need to mention that the first one who went through the door – if they even found the right room – would almost certainly be killed. Whoever had taken Sherlock had managed to capture one of the greatest minds of the country and sneak up on an experienced soldier. No point in leaving behind witnesses. John hadn't been one before – he'd been taken out before he could see anything – but now that they were here, trying to free the vic – Sherlock, they had to be killed. Never leave loose ends.

"Maybe we can draw them out" John offered, but he sounded as unsure as Tobias felt about the prospect.

Greg cleared his throat.

"First of all we have to find the room. Check every one, just to be sure. Remember to listen before you open a door, and take care not to stand in the doorway when you do".

They split up without having to agree to do so, John and Tobias moving towards the right, him and Mycroft to the left side of the hallway. He felt Mycroft brush past him and watched him press his ears on the first door.

He hadn't spoken much since his brother had disappeared; he had not taken the lead as Greg had thought he would. He knew that Mycroft was adverse to legwork, but this was Sherlock, and he worried about his brother constantly. He must be just as scared as the rest of them, if not more.

And yet he had accepted all their opinions, was calmly investigating the rooms.

Something wasn't right.

Only when they were searching the third room did Greg realize.

_A group can't go through a door all at once._

That's what Tobias had said. If they couldn't draw the kidnapper out – and it was unlikely – then they had to go in. They couldn't wait for reinforcement. The consulting detective's life was in danger.

They had to go in, and someone had to be the first.

Mycroft was silent for one simple reason: He had decided who would be the first.

He was going to kill himself for his brother.

Greg didn't know what to say. Sherlock wouldn't want the British Government to risk his life for him. He was sure of that. But then again – he wouldn't want anyone to risk their life for him.

They had to make a choice. Mycroft had already made it.

But Mycroft was more important than them. Mycroft was the British Government, and if he died, the kidnapper and his employer would get what they had planned all along. The country in chaos. The most brilliant mind in England (Sherlock had admitted as much to him, years ago, when he'd been high) gone.

Maybe both of them.

Greg shook himself. Sherlock was still alive. Sherlock had to be alive.

He wondered if they others had realized what Mycroft was about to do. John was completely focused on finding Sherlock, but Tobias might have.

Neither of them was here. They were checking the rooms on the other side of the corridor, and he had to act on his own. He had to say something.

He waited until they were in the fifth empty room. He cleared his throat.

"Mycroft?"

"Yes?" the other man asked.

He didn't know how to go on. How could he say _Please don't kill yourself for your brother_ when he was ready to do the same? When he would gladly die if only the others made it out okay?

Time was running out, and he couldn't find the words.

"You should stay at the back. Whoever ordered the hit is most likely there too. And you said they want you dead."

"I am aware of the risk involved."

Of course he was. And Greg would never make him change his mind. All he could do was try to alert John and Tobias to Mycroft's plan.

Sherlock was in danger. They should at least be able to agree on who went in first.

He left the room, knowing that Mycroft would follow him, and they searched the rest in silence.

Tobias and John were moving towards the door in the middle of the end wall of the corridor when they emerged from the last room to the left.

They watched as the former assassin pressed his ear to the door. He then started to raise his head, and Greg was convinced that they had got it wrong and had to search the next floor when suddenly Tobias froze and signed that they should move back.

At least the light of the phones wasn't strong enough that the kidnappers would be alerted to their presence.

"At first I thought no one was in there, but then I heard someone tapping against the wall. Sounded like – the first notes of Beethoven's fifth symphony."

"Sherlock?" Greg asked.

Mycroft shook his head. "He knows better. He wouldn't do anything to lure us into a trap. He would either try to warn us or stay silent".

John nodded and said, "So Sherlock is in there and being held at gunpoint so he doesn't make a noise – "

"We don't know Sherlock's in there" the DI argued, hoping that Tobias and the doctor would realize what he wanted to say.

_We might not have to go in._

Of course, the only reason he argued like this was that he was desperate. He didn't think it likely. Why should they keep Sherlock in a different room? It made far more sense to have him exactly where they thought he was and get rid of two Holmes at once.

Even if they had known Sherlock wasn't in the room, Mycroft would still have gone in first, because there would always be the chance that they were wrong.

And as long as Sherlock was in danger, his brother would do anything to protect him. Especially after Moriarty. After a mistake and the mistrust between them had cost the consulting detective three years of his life.

Greg looked at the others and saw that Mycroft knew what he was trying to do. Of course he did. John was staring at him, not really caring what he said as long as they had a clue; and in Tobias' eyes he read an understanding. He'd been right. The former contract killer knew what was going to happen. Maybe he had known before Greg.

"He most likely is" Mycroft broke the silence. Even though they were all whispering, the words still felt loud and definitive, and the DI became aware that there was nothing he could say.

Tobias nodded. "I think the same. That's why I'm going in first."

Greg hadn't expected that. Considering their expressions, the others hadn't either; even Mycroft looked surprised for a second before he schooled his features.

"But – "

Tobias interrupted John before he could voice his protests.

"It's a simple process of elimination. Mycroft is the British Government. He is needed. John and Greg, you have known Sherlock longer than I have. You are important to him. I'm not important to anyone.

"That's not true" Greg stated, because it wasn't. If Tobias wasn't important to Sherlock, the consulting detective wouldn't have treated him the way he had.

And yet – Tobias had chosen the only way that could make Mycroft agree to let him go first. He'd used logic when, as usual, had been blabbering, not knowing what to say.

"Process of elimination?" John hissed. "You can't just – "

"Call it my redemption, then".

"I thought you didn't think you needed to redeem yourself" John commented.

"I don't – but I'm starting to see why people would believe I did. Now, cover for me. I am confident I can take out at least one of them."

Without another word, Tobias moved. All they could do was position themselves to either side of the door.

The ex-assassin pushed open the door. It opened without a sound, and everything seemed to be silent and dark in the room.

Tobias ran into the room in one swift motion.

The silence that followed was worse than any gunshot would have been.


	25. Sacrifice

Tobias' heart was hammering in his chest. This was a suicide mission. Once they heard him come in, they would shoot.

But he had to save Sherlock. Or make it at least possible for the others to do so. The assassin and his employer couldn't have an unlimited supply of bullets, and every one they wasted on him made Sherlock's rescue more likely.

He didn't think they had killed him yet. If anything went wrong, they could use him for leverage.

Him going in first had been the only option. He had known, right from the moment he'd discovered Sherlock was missing, that his brother would do anything to save him; one look at his determined expression had been enough. And once it was clear they were hauled up in a room, he had been sure what the British Government's plan was.

But he couldn't allow that. He could remember the look in Sherlock's eyes as he told them of the danger his brother was in.

Greg and John were important to Sherlock was well. He had known them for years. Tobias didn't want him to lose either of them.

He hadn't known him for long – hadn't known him at all, really, until he'd shown up on his doorstep. If anyone should die, it should be the one whose death would hurt the least, and it was clearly Tobias.

He had never thought much about death – it came to all in the end, so he had never seen a reason to be scared – but he considered it ironic that he was dying for someone.

Of all the ways he could go out, he'd never have believed it would be this.

Somehow, he was glad it was. If he had been scared of dying, if he had given it much thought – he would have been convinced that no one would notice he was gone, that it wouldn't mean anything. But it would.

He would be remembered.

Sherlock Holmes would be alive because he had chosen to go in first; Sherlock Holmes would live to solve more crimes, to save more people. He was saving a good man. He was certain that he was saving him – he had to be. Sherlock Holmes couldn't be dead. Sherlock Holmes was needed.

He pushed the door open. Nothing happened; he hadn't expected anything to happen. They wouldn't shoot until they heard him step into the room.

Tobias took one deep breath. He reminded himself why he was doing this, and that for the first time, what he did actually mattered.

He stepped into the room.

Nothing happened.

He had expected to be shot within the first twenty seconds of entering the room, but there was nothing.

He breathed as quietly as possible and wished he could take the phone out of his pocket, but the light would give away his position. He couldn't risk it.

Everyone was waiting. He was waiting, the kidnappers were waiting, Sherlock was waiting.

It was the last thought that spurned him into action.

As soon as he made a noise, they would fire.

He dropped down on the floor and rolled to his right.

The first shot went where he'd stood only seconds before. He knew it couldn't have been the contract killer. The shot had been fired too quickly, not paying attention to where he was moving; this was the employer, impatient to get rid of him, and this gave him the advantage, because the contract killer wouldn't have heard his last few movements over the shot.

As quickly as he could he took his phone out of his pocket and threw it across the room, to where he believed the shot had come from; at the very least it would show him where the employer wasn't –

And there was a dark mass that didn't move.

Sherlock wouldn't be standing; they'd have him kneeling in a corner.

He was proven right when a shot rang out, shattering his phone, from the place the mass had just been.

Not the hitman. A hitman, especially one who would pick a job as well-paid as this one, knew to wait. Tobias thought quickly. If that was the employer, then it was logical that the other person would be –

Suddenly, there was a pressure on his neck, and he gasped, but kept hold of his weapon. He elbowed the man holding him into his stomach, but he didn't let go. He started kicking, holding his breath. If he panicked because he couldn't breathe, it would only make it easier for his former colleague.

However, he could only hold his breath for so long while he struggled to get free and was careful not to lose his gun, and he felt himself getting weaker. He tried even more desperately to free himself, but to no avail; either he would lose consciousness and never wake up, or the accomplice of his ex colleague would shoot him. This was it. Not only did he die the only way he would have thought he would – bloody – but he had failed. Sherlock was still in danger, and the others would get in and attacked and slaughtered –

A gunshot rang out.

And then, he was free. He didn't realize why until he heard groans and the unmistakable sounds of bodies rolling on the floor.

Sherlock had jumped on his attacker, disregarding the danger he found himself in.

Tobias did the only thing he could think of – he called out.

"Sherlock?"

"Carr! Behind you!"

Despite his instinct to help the consulting detective, he knew that he had take down the other threat first.

He spun around and ran forward in zig-zag, dodging another bullet. Based on the course the projectile took – into a wall over his right shoulder – Carr had withdrawn into a corner.

She had fired at least two shots. They could get out of this alive. His pulse quickened.

"Help!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. In the darkness, everyone was a terrible shot, and now that one of the kidnappers was rolling on the floor fighting Sherlock, they could defeat them.

He heard the others burst through the door and called out, "To your right".

They knew immediately that he was talking about Sherlock, and within seconds, the consulting detective received the help he needed; he heard more groaning and cursing and was more than prepared to take down Carr on his own, now that he knew Sherlock would be fine, when he felt a presence next to him.

"Ms. Carr?"

Mycroft. Apparently he had drawn the same conclusion Tobias had come to and was now trying to eliminate the one threat that still remained.

"Mycroft Holmes".

Both of them were eerily calm. Far calmer than Tobias was used to, in situations where politicians were being threatened. Normally, they let their masks drop.

Not these two.

"I assume you brought a flashlight. I would consider it prudent to use it".

The ex hitman wanted to contradict him, but decided against it. His experience told him that she was going to shoot the moment she saw their outlines, but this was the British Government. If he was convinced it was safe to let her turn on the lights, he would take the chance. Plus, he would be able to look after Sherlock.

As soon as the light turned on, he looked towards the place the consulting detective was and found him standing up, if being held by Greg and John. Sherlock gave him a smirk and Tobias sighed with relief before turning around again.

"I have to admit, Ms. Carr – it was a good plan" Mycroft began.

"Admirable" Sherlock drawled and came to stand beside them, despite the attempts of his best friend to make him sit down.

"I knew the only way to get to anyone of you was to surprise you" she answered. "So I figured I'd take the simple approach and plunge everyone into darkness".

"Because Mycroft wouldn't let you on his team?" Tobias asked before he could stop himself. He didn't even know why he found it so strange. He had killed for money – and many times, the motive, when he'd been able to figure it out, had been pettier than this.

But this was Sherlock. No one should think about killing Sherlock. Somehow, he had become a fixture in Tobias' world, and he wouldn't allow anyone to harm him.

He knew she still had a gun and some shots, and even though the assassin was unconscious, judging by the fact that he heard no struggle going on, she was still a threat. Sherlock and Mycroft were standing next to him. If she fired straight forward, she would hit at least one of them.

"Because he wouldn't see what I had to offer; a new vision. Why being content with controlling Britain? We could control the whole world. And he wouldn't see it".

"There has to be a limit. One cannot control everything" Mycroft replied.

"But one can try".

"Yes" the elder Holmes drawled, "One can try".

Tobias knew what would happen, and he let it.

"But there's one thing one never should try. Harming my brother".

A shot rang out, fired from the British Government.

Carr sank to the ground without another word.

Sherlock quickly strolled past Tobias and took her flashlight.

"John? Greg?"

"He's unconscious. I think he's the guy Mycroft talked to in the foyer".

"Chambers. I should have known."

His voice carried regret that he hadn't realized the man was a killer, but none that he had murdered Carr.

Without further ado, Tobias took Sherlock's arm and dragged him into the hallway; the others soon followed, the hitman being bound with Greg's handcuffs.

He had never felt happier – and recognized how weird this sounded, but didn't care – than when he held the flashlight and helped them all get down the stairs safely, John at Sherlock's side.

As the doctor steadied Sherlock, who had finally admitted he still felt somehow groggy after the hit on the head he had received, he looked at the ex hitman and hoped that his gratefulness was conveyed through his eyes.

It seemed like it was, because eventually, Tobias nodded and smiled.

Only when the cars that Anthea had ordered came to stand beside them did John realize it was over.


	26. Night Walk

Sherlock didn't want to be checked for injuries, but John insisted and so he found himself sitting in the back of an ambulance once again, his blogger standing in front of him as two paramedics examined him. They wouldn't find anything; he had been knocked unconscious but wasn't dizzy, and he'd been able to follow John's finger with his eyes.

The eyes he now kept trained on his friends. He had realized as soon as he'd woken up what would happen. He'd desperately tried to get away, but Chambers had grabbed his neck and he'd been unable to make a sound.

Carr had barely said a word to him, but he'd known it was her from her perfume. He had to admit that it was a good plan.

And the death of the person who entered the door first was almost certain.

They would shoot as soon as he stepped into the room, no matter who it might be.

Unless – they waited and therefore forced the others to come in too.

Sherlock struggled more desperately. If they were forced to shoot him, his friends wouldn't have to put their lives on the line; on the other hand, they would rush in as soon as they heard the shot.

He knew who would come in first. He knew that Mycroft would insist – it was just possible that Tobias could make him change his mind. He prayed for it. The former hitman had more experience when it came to situations like this.

Then again, he didn't want any of them to try and free him. Not when their lives were in danger.

He took deep breaths and forced himself to calm down. Sentiment was clouding his judgement again.

He knew immediately that it was Tobias who came in first. Sherlock stopped moving and concentrated on the man who was holding him. If he could free himself –

And then they were saved by human error.

Carr was too impatient and shot as soon as she heard him moving; the other man had to let go of Sherlock to attack Tobias, giving Sherlock a chance to jump on him from behind.

He answered the assassin as he called out and tried to subdue the man, but he was strong and obviously had had some training in baritsu; within seconds he had a hand on the consulting detective's throat. he was about to call for help (or at least try) when Tobias did it and the others stormed into the room, so quickly that Sherlock was convinced they had already been on their way.

John and Greg were by his side and he made them understand who to grab by a muffled sound; then the man was pried off him and he breathed.

John knelt down beside him and took his phone out, checking his pulse and murmuring medical terms to himself.

"I'm fine" he mumbled.

"Not until I have – Sherlock, sit down!"

John and Greg steadied him as he stood up, the DI having put his handcuffs on the hitman who appeared to be unconscious. He walked unsteadily to Tobias's side and looked at the woman who'd planned on killing them.

He could feel the hitman's worry but was sure that Carr wouldn't shoot. She knew it was over.

Mycroft shot her. Sherlock couldn't say if he had been expecting it or not.

Either way, he squeezed his brother's shoulder briefly before getting the flashlight. Tobias dragged him out and John helped him down the stairs.

He couldn't find it in him to complain too much that he had to sit in the ambulance. Not when his friends were alive.

The British Government stood a little apart from the others, watching his brother. They had made it and Sherlock was alive.

He didn't show how relieved he was. He never did. Shooting Carr had been an impulsive decision he wasn't sorry for. She could have been useful – he still hadn't figured out how she had contacted the hitmen – but she had threatened Sherlock's life.

Someone came to stand beside him. Tobias.

"Thank you" he said quietly. "Without you – "

"There is no need. Sherlock's fine, we're all fine. That's enough for me."

Mycroft nodded.

They didn't need more words, and Tobias returned quietly to Greg's side.

"Do you have calmer days, or is it always like this?" he asked

"With Sherlock around? Pretty much". The DI's eyes softened as he watched Sherlock finally getting impatient and standing up. "But I wouldn't have it any other way."

Tobias neither.

Greg cleared his throat.

"So what are your plans? Returning home and mixing drinks?"

"I haven't thought about it".

He hadn't. Somehow, when he'd taken his seat in the plane, he hadn't thought about the afterwards; about what he would do after he had saved Sherlock.

Going back and being a bartender again suddenly seemed so incredibly boring.

He had found friends here, and he didn't want to return home, to be honest.

He found the DI looking at him with something like understanding in his eyes.

They smiled at each other and left it at that. Sherlock had finally convinced John that he could stand on his own and strode over to them; Mycroft joined their group.

"You are aware that there will be an investigation – "

"The Secret Service" Sherlock drawled.

The British Government nodded.

"We'll better get it over with then" Sherlock sighed.

The rest of the day passed quickly; the power was turned back on, the agents of the Secret Service came and looked over the crime scene, Sherlock hovering behind them and correcting their assumptions.

It was found that Carr had not only bought the janitor, but several of the people who were supposed to help the conference go smoothly as well so that they had disappeared as soon as the presentation and discussion had started.

The politicians – who hadn't realized what was going on, although some of the smarter ones might have suspected something – were incredibly grateful when the shutters opened and it was announced that the conference would be continued tomorrow in a different building. They happily accepted the explanation of a problem with the electrics – and if there were some questions, they were quickly silenced by the agents – and soon after sunset, everything was dealt with and everyone was gone.

Everyone but Sherlock Holmes and his friends.

"I want to go home."

Sherlock's voice brooked no argument and his brother nodded.

"The limousine is waiting".

Greg cleared his throat. "I think I'll stay with Mrs. Hudson for one more night – "

He didn't have to voice his thoughts. They all knew he would sleep better if he stayed in Sherlock's proximity.

John gasped. "Mrs. –"

"She has already been picked up" Anthea, who had appeared behind their backs without anyone but the Holmes noticing, said. "She is glad this is over, and I am sure she made tea."

They all chuckled – even Tobias couldn't hold back – and then moved towards the limousine. Sherlock uncharacteristically let them go first, and he understood. They all did.

Once his friends were in the car, Sherlock turned to his brother.

"Mycroft – "

For once, he couldn't find the words. They didn't talk. They never talked. And here he was, trying to voice his appreciation that his brother had killed the woman who'd threatened his life, simply because of that. Because no one was allowed to harm Sherlock, not anymore, when Mycroft was watching.

He had told Moriarty his life's story. But now he had done everything to keep him safe. He had been ready to go in first, to sacrifice himself. Sherlock knew – no one had to tell him, he simply did.

And the consulting detective stood there and couldn't find the words.

He settled on "Thank you". Mycroft would understand; Mycroft understood everything. He had always understood Sherlock in a way no one else could.

His brother looked at him. For a moment, nothing happened. Then he smiled, a real smile that reached his eyes. Smiles like this were seldom when it came to the British Government.

"No need" he said softly. He raised his hand, unsure of where to put it, before he decided to squeeze Sherlock's shoulder, like he'd done in the dark room.

The consulting detective smirked and turned around. He didn't look back as he walked towards the limousine, but he knew that his and his brother's relationship had changed again, and for the better.

Nobody broke the silence on the way back. After days of tension, they finally felt how exhausted they were; and the relief hung in the air between them. There was nothing to be said.

Until they arrived at Baker Street .

Mrs. Hudson had a lot to say, from happily declaring that she'd always known that they would be okay to checking that her boys (which included Greg and Tobias, to the former hitman's surprise) were uninjured to handing out cups of tea and proclaiming that she had never doubted their success. And, of course, she was more than happy to keep Greg as a guest for one more night.

Eventually, they all went to bed, Greg downstairs and the consulting detective and his blogger in their respective rooms; Tobias didn't feel tired.

He wasn't ready for sleep, not after everything that had happened.

He looked out the window. It was past midnight; a starless night. But he had never been enamoured by the stars. It had always been the night.

He grabbed his jacket and left. He could always open the door with his lockpick when he returned; Mrs. Hudson and the others wouldn't have anything against it, he was sure.

He didn't have to.

He was standing outside 221B, deciding which way to turn, when he felt a presence behind him.

He turned around to find Sherlock in his long coat, his piercing gaze fixed on his face.

He swept past him and walked away, and Tobias hastened to keep up.

While he had been hoping to be able to take a night walk through London, he hadn't imagined Sherlock keeping him company.

It took him a while to understand that Sherlock wasn't just showing him London, but his London; even though the consulting detective explained very little, he understood.

"This is where I met Greg" he pointed at a park and Tobias remembered a moment, when Sherlock had been his captor and brought him dinner and wearing a much too light shirt for the weather, during which he'd noticed the needle marks on his arms.

"My homeless network likes to occupy the abandoned houses in this area". Tobias heard the unspoken _So did I_.

"That's the first crime scene I ever took John" and the ex contract killer could almost feel his excitement to finally have a friend.

They ended their tour of abandoned roads and well-light places and dark corners at St. Bart's.

Tobias had read about it. He had read everything he could find about Sherlock's so-called suicide.

First he took him to the lab he'd met John. They spent a few minutes there, and Tobias imagined what it must have been like, to limp into a room and find a whole new future.

He could sympathize.

Then, unexpectedly, Sherlock took him up to the rooftop.

He was certain that this was a memory the consulting detective didn't want to relive, but he followed him without a word. Just like he accepted the cigarette Sherlock offered him.

For a few minutes, they smoked in silence.

Then, Sherlock asked, "What are your plans?"

"Return home, I guess."

Sherlock didn't answer immediately and Tobias continued, "This is your battlefield. You have more than enough soldiers."

"But I might need a spy."

He laughed at that, and Sherlock joined him.

Finally, they returned to Baker Street, where they both got some sleep.

Tobias left the next day, Mycroft having offered to have him brought home in his private jet.

Mrs. Hudson bid him a fond farewell, followed by an offer of free accommodation whenever he wanted to spend some time in the city.

Greg smiled at him and clasped his shoulder.

"Thanks. Without you – "

"It didn't happen. It doesn't matter".

It didn't. As long as Sherlock Holmes was alive, he was satisfied.

The DI smiled knowingly and let his hand drop.

John cleared his throat.

"I – when you arrived, I might not have been – "

"It's alright. I would have felt the same" he assured him quickly. The doctor looked like he wanted to argue but didn't and shook his hand instead.

Saying goodbye to Sherlock was different. What could one say to a man when one had already stood smoking at the place where both of their new lives had begun, without either of them knowing at the time?

So he punched his shoulder, like he had seen many patrons in the bar do, and smiled at Sherlock's surprised expression.

"I'll see you around" he said. It was a promise.

Sherlock gave him the piercing glare he'd grown accustomed to.

"I'm counting on it".

Tobias decided that were the most important words he'd ever heard. As he entered the plan, he realized he was happy for the first time since he could remember.


	27. Epilogue

Starting a new life wasn't easy, especially if one had found a much more interesting one to lead.

Tobias enjoyed his job – even if customers were drunk and got angry, one look of him sufficed to make them behave – but he couldn't help but remember the days he'd spent in England.

Naturally, John and Greg hadn't accepted him at first.

But Sherlock had.

Sherlock, the man who had kidnapped him; Sherlock, the man who had let him go. Sherlock, who had taken one look at him as he walked into his flat, declaring to have killed a man, and decided that he could be trusted.

When he had begun this new life, a normal life, he had thought that he would meet some people he might call friends eventually. He'd never believed he would connect with someone like he had with his strange kidnapper – he hadn't been able to explain to himself then why there had even been a connection. Now he knew they had both been lonely, and maybe had more in common than he'd a first supposed. And here he was, with friends who lived on another continent.

The DI and the doctor had warmed up to him eventually, when he thought they wouldn't, when he'd thought they couldn't. And Mrs. Hudson had been nothing but welcoming.

He should be glad that he had friends to begin with, honestly. Should be content with his life.

And yet he couldn't help but feel that he'd been more alive during these few days than – well, than he'd ever been. His life as a bartender – it felt real; but the days he'd spent with Sherlock and his friends had been so much more intense that it had almost been a surprise when he'd found himself back in his native land.

He believed he was becoming more human, one step at a time. Slowly, he was regaining memories he hadn't know he had –

Not exactly regaining, maybe. He caught himself remembering one moment before he'd pulled the trigger without being able to say when or where; he saw a face in his mind and couldn't recall the name of his victim.

He still didn't remember all of them. He was sure that Sherlock's claim that he had killed fifty-four people was correct. Fifty-five, now. He couldn't forget about Carew. The only kill he had ever felt good about. He had saved Sherlock.

Tobias couldn't say how he felt about the sudden flashbacks. He couldn't say if they were the beginning of the redemption he wasn't sure he needed. But at least he had helped a good man.

He and Sherlock kept in contact, through texts and emails. The consulting detective didn't care about time zones, so that Tobias might get a text at any time of the day; he suspected that had to do with the fact that he knew that the former hitman loved the night and would often stay up to take a stroll.

The messages would have been uninteresting to anyone else; they were snippets of the consulting detective's daily life. Tobias soon found, however, that he was more than glad every time he received one.

_The new detective at Scotland Yard is an idiot._

_John is insisting I eat again. I ate two days ago, so I'm okay for a bit, but I do not think I will be able to convince him to let me be._

_Greg had another case that baffled him. It wasn't interesting in the least, but I solved it anyway. He's annoying when he can't figure something out._

_Mycroft came by with a file. Naturally, he could have dealt with it himself but it required legwork so he forced me to do it. It was a bit of a challenge at least._

The messages were the highlight of his day, and yet he always wished he could simply get a ticket and return to London. It was stupid, of course; they had needed him; there was no reason to think they would welcome him with open arms.

If only his new life weren't so boring. Safe, fulfilling in some ways, but boring.

He didn't deserve better, he told himself. He certainly didn't deserve running around London at the heels of the consulting detective, like John and Greg. He had been a hitman after all. Feeling guilty and being guilty were two very different things. Maybe there was some form of divine retribution.

Quite frankly, he shouldn't have felt like he could have better. That was what being normal was all about.

But –

No. No buts. He had decided that he would change his life and he had. He and Sherlock were friends, and that was more than enough for him.

Until the day the consulting detective called him. He'd come home at dawn after a long shift, and as always checked that there were no signs of a break-in. Even if he was convinced that none of his former colleagues knew what had become of him, it didn't hurt to be sure.

He didn't feel like going to bed. Instead, he sat up reading a book.

At 7 am, his phone rang.

He jumped. Nobody called him; well, his boss did now and then, when he had to take an extra shift, but other than that – and his boss wouldn't call him after a shift. He could have asked him then.

"Hello?"

"Tobias".

Sherlock sounded calm, controlled, relaxed even, but he still held his breath. The consulting detective texted him. He never called.

"I need a spy".

"Sure" he answered immediately, "What's going on?"

"Mycroft dropped off another file" he drawled, not sounding too upset.

Before Tobias could say anything, he added, "There's a flat not too far from Baker Street. You could stay there while you are working the case."

It was clear that he was welcomed there as long as he wanted.

Tobias looked around his flat and thought of London. Never had a decision been easier.

When he boarded the plane that evening, he decided that he'd been wrong.

His new life hadn't started until now.


End file.
